


Fevered Dream

by theoneandonlyzoom



Series: Dreamwalker [3]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Dubious Consent, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Fear for the wellbeing of a child, Hux is still pretty cutthroat though, Hypnotism, Kidnapping, M/M, Mind Manipulation, One-Sided Relationship, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prisoner of War, Psychological Torture, Resistance Member Armitage Hux, Seduction, Sex, Sleep Deprivation, Supreme Leader Kylo Ren, Threats of Violence, Unhealthy Relationships, Violence, but the kiddo isn't going to get hurt I promise, cult like behavior, don't make him stab you
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-16
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2019-10-11 02:16:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 50,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17438000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theoneandonlyzoom/pseuds/theoneandonlyzoom
Summary: As they walk, a shadow passes over them. Hux glances up to see three Star Destroyers hovering above the city, sleek and silent and deadly.His past has finally caught up to him.





	1. The Beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Let's jump right into this, shall we...?

~***~

_“Your nightmares follow you like a shadow, forever.”_

― Aleksandar Hemon

~***~

In this precious, pre-dawn moment of the day, when the sky is bruised a ruddy blue and the city is still and silent, Hux stands before the mirror at the foot of his bed and beholds his reflection.

His mind is foggy with sleep, eyes half-focused on the reversed image of his hands buttoning up the collar of his starched white dress shirt. The motions are slow and habitual; he’s running on automatic as he reflects on his agenda for the day. Simultaneously, he is scrutinizing his hair and eyebrows for hints of copper, particularly at the roots, though he knows he has no need to worry. They were re-dyed their customary golden brown only a week ago. All is as it should be.

As it always is.

He finishes with his collar and finally tears his eyes away from the mirror, fiddling with his cuff links, sorting out his shirt before moving on to his boots. They’re mid-calf and made of black leather, a bit of a reminder of the many days he spent wearing another sort of uniform. But that is where the comparison ends. His dark grey trousers are comfier than his jodhpurs ever were, and he rarely, if ever, uses pomade on his hair anymore. He still has a tendency to stroke it back from his eyes, but some habits are harder to break than others, and he’s been making progress in more significant ways since his liberation.

Sitting on the edge of his bed, tying up his boots, he hears movement in the en suite, particularly the sound of the shower powering down and wet feet stepping out onto the tile. Without the running water to mask it, Hux hears something else now: the soft rustle of fabric in the room across the hall and the familiar noise of someone speaking nonsense.

The latter can mean only one thing, really.

Smiling, Hux finishes dressing for the day and rises from his seat. His feet carry him into the other room where Kirian is still lying in his cot, babbling to himself under his breath. He’s always been a bit chatty in his first few solitary moments of the day, although he usually isn’t up this early. If Hux had to guess, he was probably roused by the sound of his mother packing her gear for her next flight out. He’s always been a terribly light sleeper.

“Good morning,” Hux murmurs, voice still hoarse with sleep. He braces his hands against the bed railing and stares down at his boy, whose arms are extended up above his head in what appears to be a terribly good stretch. As usual, the babe smiles at him as soon as he realizes he has a visitor.

Technically, Kirian is no longer a ‘babe’, per se. He’ll be two years old in just a few, short weeks and still growing fast. He’s already reached the necessary developmental milestones for his age and has a decent repertoire of words in his ever-expanding vocabulary, his favorites being ‘ _hi’_ , ‘ _yes_ ,’, ‘ _uh_ - _oh’_ , and ‘ _shoes’_. Every day, he moves another step farther away from being the small, cooing, nonsensical lump he was at birth.

True to form, Kirian completes his stretch and, still smiling, mumbles a soft ‘ _hi_ ’ in greeting.

“Yes, ‘ _hi’_ ,” Hux replies. “Do you want to eat? I have food for you.”

This earns him a most enthusiastic ‘ _yes_ ’ as his son then rolls onto his side and maneuvers carefully up onto his feet. “Up, please,” he commands with approximately proper pronunciation, arms outstretched for his father.

Hux scoops Kirian into his arms, hoisting his small body over the railing before setting him down on the floor, where the boy then takes off at a wobbly trot toward the kitchen, his father hot on his heels.

Breakfast is yogurt, milk, and some kind of crunchy grain bits that the boy loves to eat dry with his fingers. He munches merrily away at his food from his favorite spot on the bench under the kitchen window. He’s making a bit of a mess of the whole process, but Hux hardly cares, silently trying to place the familiar tune the boy is humming between bites as he himself works his way through a bowl of porridge.

Before too long, Kaydel glides into the room, travel bag hoisted over one shoulder, having obsessively packed and repacked it at least twice already this morning. She drops it gently on the table beside Hux’s cup of tea when she spots Kirian awake in the corner. She cracks out a warm smile for him as she crouches down beside her son.

“You’re up early,” she says, reaching out to stroke her hand through Kirian’s hair. Like her, he’s a natural blond. In fact, he shares quite a few features with his mother, although he indisputably has his father’s stormy green eyes. “You’re just a hungry little boy, aren’t you?”

Kirian swallows the current morsel in his mouth and leans forward to noisily kiss his mother on the cheek. Then, as he’s leaning back again, he glances down at her customary flight suit and seems to remember when and why she tends to dress like this…

“Mommy’s going?” he asks, frowning a little, although more in curiosity than distress. Thankfully, he’s begun to get through his separation anxiety stage, which was quite the tackle back when Kaydel first began undertaking more off-world missions.

“Yes, mommy has to go for a while,” Kaydel replies. She’s mentioned it a few times already, although Hux doesn’t know how long a toddler can hold complex information like extended absences in their memory. “A little longer than the last time, honey.”

This will hardly be the first time she’s had to leave for a mission post-birth, although this _will_ be her longest stretch away. Thirty days total. It doesn’t seem like a lot at a glance, but for a small child it might as well be an eternity. Her second longest trip had been seven days, and Kirian was _definitely_ not satisfied with her continued absence by the 72-hour mark.

But it can’t be helped. She’s a Captain now and she has her duties.

Dameron, whose parents were both highly active members of the Resistance, once assured them that the boy would get used to their coming and goings in his own time. Hux supposes they themselves lucked out with the fact that he doesn’t have to leave the planet to do his job. He’s already amended his work schedule to free up most of his afternoons, not wanting to leave their son attended by hired help most of the day. Besides the obvious detriment of sacrificing family time for work, their situation reminds Hux uncomfortably of Ben Solo’s situation before he lost his mind.

Hux doesn’t ever want his own son to feel as though he neglected him.

Kaydel cozies up next to their son as he finishes his breakfast, still stroking his hair, talking about all the things they’ll do together once she’s home again before she escorts him out of the kitchen to help him bathe for the day. Hux is left to his thoughts, sipping his tea as he watches the street outside his window glow, the sun finally rising above the horizon, illuminating the world.

Nearly three years ago, he came to Talos Prime as a refugee. Several months later, he was offered a position as a senior advisor in the Lower Chamber of the government, overtly assigned the duties of collecting and dispensing information to his constituents while covertly serving as a tactician for the Senators within the Upper Chamber when it came to dealings with the First Order or other, smaller criminal organizations. In fact, the whole reason Kaydel was leaving today was because of Hux’s confirmed suspicions that the FO was undertaking some operation dangerously close to the Hosnian system. Seven Star Destroyers were trying to hide in the shadow of a moon, biding time for who-knows-what.

Hux is always proud of his work, but he still feels helpless. Most days, he sits behind his desk and pores over intel from the Resistance or the Talos military, trying to think as his other self used to think, playing the part of an FO General in the back of his mind. He still sees a therapist on the regular to deal with the nightmares and the depression and the stress, but somehow his inner demons still have a way of pulling him back in, reminding him of the cold caress of darkness and the torrid embrace of the madman who introduced him to it.

Feeling a little heavy in the chest, Hux rises from his seat and washes the breakfast dishes in the sink. Then he returns to his bedroom to collect his work satchel and his coat.

Finally set for the day, he wanders back into Kirian’s room. The boy is fleshly bathed, dried, and dressed, tracing the intricate braids in his mother’s hair from his perch against her hip.

“You sure you want head out this early?” Kaydel asks as she hands the boy over to him. “You usually don’t leave for another hour.”

“I think I’ll take the longer route to work today, via the ferry,” he replies, glancing at his son. “You love the boat, don’t you, Kirian?”

“Big one?!” he gasps, already enamored.

Kaydel leans forward to kiss her husband on the lips. Then she presses one against Kirian’s soft cheek and gives his back a light rub. “You be good for your dad, okay?”

Kirian nods but says nothing, elation rapidly dulled as he buries his face into the crook of Hux’s neck.

The boy is depressed and Hux wants to get his mind off his mother’s departure, so he kisses Kaydel once more goodbye, hikes the strap to his work satchel higher up over his other shoulder, and carries his son out into the sandy streets of Asgua.

The temperature on Talos Prime is perpetually cool. It never reaches the freezing point, but coupled with the arid landscape, it makes for quite the dessert. Most of the planet’s water is located underground, save for a few of the larger rivers, such as _Stos,_ which runs directly through the capital, and is pumped aboveground for irrigation. Hux once wondered how so many people came to live on this planet in the first place, but Talos Prime is rich in precious gems and metals, so the cost of importing goods, such as purified drinking water, is entirely possible.

Today, the city is as chilly as ever. Kirian, bundled up in a warm coat, hardly cares; Hux, who’s familiar with the cold and unforgiving nature of space, hardly cares either. The cool wind against his face wakes him up as he walks the short distance to the small dock beside their home, gait brisk as he passes the tall, white-washed, stone buildings lining the streets.

Public transportation has been free in Asgua for the last decade or so, which means the ferry system, the most direct route to the city centre, is almost always packed. However, as early as they are out today, hardly anyone is waiting in line for the next ferry. It takes them all of five minutes to hop on the next boat, where he picks an empty space by the railing and finally lets Kirian down to stretch his legs. Hux watches the boy in the corner of his eye as he proceeds to say ‘ _hi_ ’ to everyone who passes by.

“Fancy seeing you two gentlemen out and about at this hour.”

Hux glances to the left as a man with greying hair approaches. It’s Senator Gre, a long-time friend and colleague of his.

“My wife is away today,” Hux explains, leaning back against the railing, watching as his son continues his greetings. “Kirian—come here, please. It’s our old friend, Mr. Gre.”

“Hi,” Kirian predictably says as he wobbles over, moving carefully with the gentle sway of the boat.

“Hello, young sir,” Gre salutes the boy, then smiles up at Hux. “Holom was talking about you the other day. He’s probably going to ask to meet with you.”

“I’m only in for the morning,” Hux replies. Senator Holom was pushing for the development of an intergalactic police force and was a close friend of General Organa. Oddly enough, they didn’t speak often outside of work. “I could squeeze him in last minute if he really must see me today, but I’ll have more free time tomorrow if he can wait that long. Do you know what he wanted to chat about?”

Gre shakes his head. “He looked strung out, but I imagine it’s just nerves. He’s going to be a father in a few weeks.”

Hux nods. He knows that feeling all too well.

“It’s very quiet out,” Gre continues, switching topics. He scans the thirty other riders currently milling about on the deck, frowning curiously.

“Isn’t it always this roomy at this hour?” Hux asks as Kirian extends his arms toward his father. Hux hoists him up onto his left hip, bracing him with one arm as the boy stares over his shoulder at the passing waves. “Don’t you usually take the ferry right about now?”

“I do, but I heard the trolley system is down in the north and east quarters. I assumed there would be more people scrambling to catch the ferry.”

“Odd, but perhaps they’ve deferred to the rail,” Hux supplies. After all, the underground line was quite extensive in comparison to the incredibly limited water ways.

Gre shrugs and then segues into yet another topic of conversation, that being sports, of which Hux knows and cares very little. Even so, he lets Gre go on about scores and penalties and fights, because that’s what social etiquette dictates, and because it at least gives Kirian the opportunity to learn a few new words.

The ferry ride takes at least 40 minutes to reach the city centre. One of its largest docks is, fortuitously, set up right behind the government buildings, a group of tall, pillared structures with an assortment of richly colored flags hanging above the doors. Each represents a province within the Talos system, of which there are 253.

Hux’s office is in the Eastern Brooks, a large building to the left, but today he makes a righthand turn for the small, squat building situated in the shadow of the Main Court. Here is where family services for government employees is situated, namely their daycare centre.

Which, today, Kirian apparently can’t stand.

Hux has barely set him down outside the front door when his son bursts into tears. Of course, Hux figures the boy has been holding this in since Kirian discovered his mother was leaving this morning, so he simply stands there as his son clamps onto his leg and strokes his hand through the boy’s hair as Kirian mumbles something unintelligible into his thigh.

“Tired, is he?” asks Mrs. Cros, the head carer at the facility.

“Something like that,” Hux replies. To his son, he says, “I’m only going to be away for a few hours. Then we’ll go for a stroll along the river together. You would like that, wouldn’t you?”

After a few muffled sniffles, Hux feels something that resembles a nod against his leg. Then Mrs. Cros gently extracts the boy and carries him off into the main playroom, red faced and still looking miserable, which distresses Hux in a way he’ll never quite get used to.

“I love you,” he says before Kirian is whisked around a corner and out of sight.

Heaviness returning, Hux retreats to his office in Eastern Brooks, a small, modest room with a window that overlooks the river. Here, he tosses his satchel onto his desk and then replaces his outdoor coat for the double-breasted, ankle length, cobalt affair all advisors must wear when on duty. It puts his old FO uniform to shame with how utterly _blue_ it is, but Hux has gotten over the shock of the colour of it by now.

Once he’s buttoned up his coat, he settles down behind his desk and waits for the first meeting of the day to commence.

He has three scheduled, not including anything that has to do with Senator Holom. His first is a visit from a woman making an inquiring into what requirements there are for peaceful protests, since her organization would like to hold a public demonstration. The other two meetings are both with senators, one of which is trying to untangle the centuries of backwards traffic bylaws the city is hoping to ditch altogether and one who is looking for advise on how to amend certain laws pertaining to domestic violence.

Hux never pictured himself as anything like a lawyer growing up, but an obsession with details and a rigid adherence to rules and regulations is very much something that was bred into him, so he works his magic slowly and surely until everyone leaves his office satisfied. Then, a few minutes before midday, just as he’s about to pack up and leave, he gets a _bing_ from the small intercom system on his desk, alerting him to somebody else’s tentative problems for the day.

Sighing, Hux presses the receiver. “This is Councilman Connix. How may I be of service?”

“ _Kilian,_ ” comes Holom’s strained voice from down the line, hoarse from years of smoking some of the worst cigs this side of the galaxy. He always sounds like he’s being half strangled. “ _Could you meet with me for a moment_?”

“I’m leaving in twenty. Is this something we can deal with over the line?”

“ _I don’t think we can. It’s a bit sensitive. I’m sure you of all people would understand_ …”

Hux rolls his shoulders back, trying to fight the tension building there. He wonders if Holom’s somehow stumbled across something pertaining to the FO. “You need _my_ particular expertise? You’re sure about that?”

_“You’re the only one that will suffice, I’m afraid.”_

Hux doesn’t much like the sound of that.

He glances at the chronometer on the wall above the door, then says, “I take it you’re in your office?”

_“I am. I promise this will be quick.”_

“Very well. I’m on my way.”

He contemplates grabbing his satchel and day jacket on the way out, but he needs to come back anyway to return his uniform coat. So, he pulls himself out of his chair and briskly makes his way to the Main Court, a small, squat building that houses the Talos Senate itself and the Senators’ offices. Holom’s is well below ground on the second sublevel, sacrificing a good view for a greater deal of warmth. This far down, the rooms are small and cozy, if a bit claustrophobic. Of course, Hux will always prefer his own office and the second exit his window provides in comparison to the bowels of the Main Court, which often reminds him too much of the inescapable labyrinth of a Star Destroyer.

A brief knock on the door alerts Senator Holom to his presence. “Come in!” he calls out, muffled through the wood.

Hux steps inside and closes the door quietly behind himself. Holom, a young man not too much older than himself, is pacing behind his desk, skimming a letter in his hand. He waves Hux into the seat across from him, looking somewhat dejected. “Ah, you made it…Please, have a seat.”

Hux knew before coming here that Holom was tense. It’s with a growing sense of trepidation that Hux follows his command. “How is your wife?”

“She’s fine,” Holom says, but Hux already knows her pregnancy thus far has been difficult. Preeclampsia. She’s been off work for the last month and a half to reduce stress. “How’s Kaydel?”

“Likewise,” he replies, hoping they can move onto the meat of the matter soon, “but she’s left for work, so I’m responsible for the boy these next few weeks.”

“Away again already?” Holom asks, surprised. “For so long?”

As close as he is to General Organa, Holom is one of the few people privy to the fact that Hux’s family is part of the Resistance. Though he doesn’t know much beyond that, of course, such as Hux’s real name or Kaydel’s position in their organization.

“It is what it is,” Hux replies, not prepared to go into greater detail. “What was it you needed to discuss?”

Holom folds the letter in his hands shut and drops it on the desk, then he quickly thumbs through the stack of papers on his left, until he produces yet another letter, this one still encased in its envelop. This he hands to Hux, anxious. “Open this.”

He’s been living on this planet for almost three years now, and yet Hux still doesn’t understand the appeal of corresponding by paper. He takes the letter, glances at the envelop—which is only inscribed with Holom’s name—and is in the process of opening it with his forefinger when Holom grabs a letter opener off his desk and says, “Don’t be a barbarian. Use this.”

Hux blinks in surprise. He considers himself far from being a savage. At least, no one has ever _accused_ him of being one before. He finds it hard not to be insulted, even given Holom’s obvious nerves.

He’s a second away from refusing the knife on principle when the more analytical part of his brain takes an objective step back from the situation and makes a few basic observations:

Here before him stands a man who was both adamant in seeing Hux before he left for day and somewhat agitated at his actually being there, almost as though he’d been hoping Hux wouldn’t have come.   

Here, too, stands a frightened man who is insistent on putting a knife in Hux’s hand.

Instinctively, Hux doesn’t brush off the proffered letter opener. In fact, he rises from his seat slowly as he takes it from Holom and listens for the soft sound of the door opening behind him.

Then and there, he reaches a strange plateau of thought and feeling, gliding through a purely reactive existence as he turns around, eyeing the first and second figures through the door. The former is encased in the glossy white armor of a stormtrooper; the latter wears the classic black cap and tunic of a lieutenant, his expression stony as he takes in the room.

Hux might not be the most physically imposing person in the world, but he’s kept up on a few of his old tricks. As such, the letter opener flies from his hand with practiced ease as it cuts across the short distance between himself and his opponents. He doesn’t bother aiming for the stormtrooper; such a flimsy weapon would hardly dent their armor. Instead, Hux takes aim for the lieutenant, who is clearly not expecting any form of retaliation, releasing a short, sharp cry of pain as the blade imbeds itself in the tender joint between arm and torso. The man goes wide-eyed with shock as he collapses back into the next person trying to get in through the door.

It’s at this point that Hux has run out of moves. If he were in his own office, he would’ve made a beeline for the window and jumped into the river, but down here he’s trapped.

… _Trapped_.

Now that he’s taken a moment to think about what this all means, Hux feels a cold rush through his system, hands and feet numbing, heart pounding in his chest. He wishes he was imagining this encounter, but he knows he isn’t. There are more stormtroopers flooding into the room now, most trying to help drag the wounded lieutenant back out into the hall, though three immediately train their blasters on Hux. The longer they remain unwavering in his reality, the harder he finds it to cling to the hope that this is all just some fevered dream.

“I’m sorry,” Holom whispers behind him. “I’m so sorry, Connix. I had to. My wife—”

“I forgive you,” Hux replies, his own voice distant in his ears. There’s a fog settling in his brain, attempting to soften the blow of his inevitable defeat. It’s a reflex geared toward the self-preservation of the mind, he imagines, trying to keep him in a state of semi-disbelief so that he remains upright, relatively calm, and alive.

He doesn’t know if it’s helping or not. It does keep him oddly focused on the Captain that breezes through the door next, a slight, blond fellow at least ten to fifteen years Hux’s junior. Hands folded behind his back, he smiles a small smile over his shoulder at his lieutenant as the other man continues to squeal in pain, then turns to Hux and calmly says, “Was that really necessary?”

Running somewhat on autopilot, Hux says, “Were you fond of him?”

“I suppose not.” He waves his stormtroopers forward with a small gesture. “Restrain him.”

The three remaining troopers step forward. Two of them keep their rifles trained on Hux as the third whips out a set of cuffs from her utility belt. “ _Hands up where I can see them_ ,” she barks.

Still running on autopilot, Hux does as he’s told. That cold rush is beginning to settle in his stomach, which roils uncomfortably with the first flutter of fear as she steps behind him, grabbing one wrist and then the other to restrain his arms behind his back.

“You’re taking this rather well,” the Captain remarks, head tilted slightly to one side, curious and amused. “Or are you in shock? Your fellow councilmen made quite the ruckus by comparison.”

Hux hopes that means they were taken hostage rather than having been gunned down. He’s made so many friends here. He couldn’t stand the thought of them perishing, least of all in an FO invasion—one that he should’ve seen coming when Gre pointed out that the trolley system was down and that there was a low turnout on the ferry. Restricting access across a city is a standard first move. The First Order probably started cordoning off parts of the city earlier in the day, and now they were sweeping through, collecting whatever fancied them before the real operation began. At that point, they would either burn everything to the ground or install a permanent military presence in order to slowly bend the populace to their will.

“Are you disappointed?” Hux asks.

“Not at all.” The Captain takes a step forward, tugging on the inside hem of his left glove, pulling it taut over his fingers. Hux used to have the same habit when he was waiting for something important to unfold. “He told us to be careful with you. He wasn’t wrong, I think.”

‘ _He’…_

Ren.

Hux feels that coldness drop into his groin. He still remembers their last encounter, the wild chase through Hux’s mind and Ren’s threat to completely wipe his memories clean before building him anew. More likely than not now, Ren simply wants to execute him personally after having evaded him all these years, but Hux wouldn’t put it past the man to inflict a little pain on him first. After all, the only thing Ren was _really_ good at was hurting other people, and it was a hobby he quite enjoyed.

However, knowing what awaits him doesn’t alleviate any of Hux’s fears. He’s quite averse to pain. He also doesn’t particularly like the idea of someone poking around inside his mind, which is something he’s sure Ren’s going to do, even if only to figure out where Leia Organa is hiding.

It’s somewhat fortuitous then that the General is nowhere near the Talos system right now.

Neither is Kaydel, assuming she took off before the First Order began their invasion. However, Kirian is still in the city. With any luck, he’ll be overlooked for now, unless the FO is still keen on bulking up their stormtrooper program.

Thinking about his boy in their clutches brings an entirely new wave of fear, one that makes him feel downright sick.

The Captain doesn’t seem to notice. His eyes are already on Holom. “That one, too,” he instructs his men. “The more the merrier.”

One of other troopers steps forward to restrain the Senator as Hux is given a small push toward the door. He moves at a half-way decent pace considering his feet feel like lead weights, his brain just barely processing the thirteen other stormtroopers clustered together out in the hall. Two of them have the wounded lieutenant propped up between them, who’s left a mess of blood on the floor. There’s another lieutenant, a young woman, but she doesn’t look Hux in the eye, instead keeping her gaze focused down the hall as though her life depended on it.

The Captain finally steps out, breezing off toward the stairs, his entourage in tow. Hux and Holom are kept in the centre of the pack, surrounded on all sides by troopers. They make their way together to the ground level and are then led out toward the docks where the shuttles have been parked.

As they walk, a large shadow passes over them. Hux glances up to see three Star Destroyers hovering over the city, sleek and silent and deadly, keeping watch over all. They must have entered the airspace far outside the city limits and glided in just recently, otherwise Hux is sure he would’ve noticed them before.

Across the river, he also catches sight of a sea of stormtroopers matching down the street. There are no fires or blaster shots or screams yet, meaning the invasion is still in its early phase. Considering the FO just seized the government buildings without much of a fuss, they might be trying to make this a relatively clean and simple takeover rather than a bloody massacre. Seeing as the Talos system has been quite forward in advocating a universal police force, particularly to defend against criminal organizations such as the FO, it would be in the Order’s best interests if the intergalactic community continued to underestimate the threat they posed. Keeping the amount of bloodshed to a minimum would make them almost appear…negotiable.

Hux wonders who came up with this strategy, if not Ren.

It couldn’t have been Ren.

Hux trains his eyes forward again, taking note of the other government officials being herded onto one of the shuttles, their blue coats a stark contrast to the black and white uniforms of their enemy. He and Holom are led onto the one beside it, which already holds six other officials, hands cuffed to the ceiling hooks at eyelevel before them.

Hux’s hands are similarly uncuffed and then re-cuffed in front of him, locked into place over a hook. The Captain, lieutenants, and troopers all file on board with the prisoners before the Captain gives his pilots the all clear for take off.

Bracing his feet slightly apart as the ship shudders into the air, Hux watches as the Captain drops onto the bench along the hull beside him. “Who are you?” Hux asks, wondering why he didn’t introduce himself when he was making the arrest. Most officers considered that the best part, letting their quarry know just who it was that ensnared them.

A small curl now at the corner of his lips, the younger man removes his cap and says, “Captain Levit Rotan of the First Order, at your service. I believe you knew my father.”

Hux tilts his head back slightly, recognizing the name ‘Rotan’ almost immediately. Captain Leif Rotan was one of Hux’s head intelligence officers before he passed away of a heart attack almost a decade ago. He was a sadistic son of a bitch, almost to the point where Hux was honestly surprised he made it through the officer vetting program. He was put in charge of interrogations, because that was one of the few places he flourished, although even then he had a tendency to go a little overboard. Ren preferred his methods more than Hux did, so it only figures that Levit might find a comfortable place for himself by serving the new Supreme Leader in the same way his father did.

Knowing Hux recognizes his family name, Rotan’s smile widens. “I have so many questions for you, Grand Marshal.”

Hux turns his gaze away, staring straight ahead, trying not to let his mind entertain all the possible ways in which Rotan could go about _‘asking’_ those questions.

He’ll be finding out firsthand soon enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Well, Hux...you'd better brace yourself.
> 
> Edit: I'm hearing some concerns about Hux being married. Trust me, the real story always has been and always will be about Hux and Ren. I promise. You'll see...


	2. Demons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I apologize for taking so long! Please, enjoy!

~***~

“ _There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon,_

_and the anger of a gentle man.”_

― Patrick Rothfuss

~***~

His third month into fatherhood, Hux still occasionally woke in the dead of night with a scream perched at the back of his throat.

He felt awful about it, not only because he would usually startle Kaydel, who was already sleep-deprived and worn out from dealing with a newborn child on a daily basis, but because he would also rouse said newborn, who was already stressed enough from his current inability to interpret the whirlwind of sensory information around him, least of all a scream. Nobody else in their small family could make the whole household miserable with nothing more than a mere nightmare, an honour that Hux held all his own, and so he often offered to deal with the hollering infant as Kaydel squinted blearily at him from her side of the bed, likely wondering if they were under attack. It was both the least he could do and the easiest escape from lying wide awake for the rest of the night, terrified of falling asleep again.

Kirian, thank the stars, was an easy child to deal with once he was scooped up into someone’s arms, so Hux would lift the squealing baby from the cradle stationed at the foot of their bed, tuck him into the crook of his arm, and retreat into kitchen.

He would then pace the room in the dark until Kirian’s strangled sobs died down and the boy began sucking on his tiny hand, a sign that he was hungry now on top of everything else. There was always a pot of water on the backburner of the stove, which Hux would turn up to a low boil before tossing in a bottle of milk from their refrigerating unit. When he finally had the warmed food in hand, he would settle in the seat beneath the kitchen window, perch the bottle against Kirian’s lips, and watch the little boy drink his fill under the faint glow of the twin moons waning in the starry sky above them

Performing such a routine but essential task usually had a calming effect on Hux. Though the back of his neck would still be covered in a cold sweat, he would slowly unwind. Watching Kirian feast contentedly in the sanctuary of his arms was an oddly satisfying and peaceful experience.

Though Kirian’s birth hadn’t been planned, he was wholly welcomed into Hux’s life. In fact, Hux didn’t understand how anyone could look at their offspring and wish them unmade. Brendol had, which baffled Hux only more now that he was a father himself. Here was a small child, still blind, still fragile, still uncertain of his own sense of self, who only craved food and physical contact and the soft sound of his parents’ voices—there was nothing malicious about him. He posed a threat to no one.

Yet Brendol had somehow felt threatened by _him_ ,

Hux hadn’t just been unplanned. He was unwanted and unloved. He was taken from his biological mother when he was too young to remember her and thrust into a life of pain and humiliation. Brendol never shied away from pointing out his many flaws or the fact that Hux owed everything to him to somehow make up for the burden of his existence—but there was no way of making it up to Brendol, really, because the old man was incapable of being satisfied.

While thinking of Brendol was often an agonizing exercise, Hux was feeling less bothered by it nowadays. He knew it was because this was the one way in which he had Brendol absolutely beat, that his genuine eagerness and excitement at being a father was something Brendol could never achieve. Hux loved his child more than he had ever loved anyone, and he was going to do everything in his power to prove that.

Once Kirian was satiated, Hux would deposit the empty bottle on the counter and return to the bedroom. Kirian, milk drunk and limp against his father’s chest, barely stirred when Hux laid him down in his cradle. He looked so tranquil and perfect. It was hard to believe he was real.

Tired but calm, Hux would move quietly through the darkness to his side of the bed. More often than not, he would notice that his pillowcase was different; Kaydel often changed it for him, even though he never asked her to. She never questioned his panic attacks. She occasionally still had her own, though she was somehow more skilled in masking them.

As usual, Kaydel would already be fast asleep again, breathing heavily, face half-tucked into her pillow. Hux would climb under the covers and pull them up to his waist, then roll onto his side to watch her. She, too, looked peaceful in her sleep, but he knew she was worried in her own way about what the future might hold for them. After all, they were still in hiding and likely always would be.

Eventually, almost begrudgingly, Hux would succumb to the weightiness behind his eyes. Though a good friend once told him that the spectre that roamed his mind wasn’t real, that Hux had pulled it together from nothing more than stray memories, Hux still feared their imaginary encounters. The Ren of his nightmares was as real to him in the night as he was any of the days they worked side-by-side together as co-commanders of the First Order.

And Hux could never shake the feeling that this harbinger of darkness would come for him again someday.

~***~

He remains in a state of shock as the shuttle rises into the exosphere, vibrating gently, artificial gravity keeping them stationary and upright. Hux trains his eyes on the hook in front of him, only mildly aware of the soft sobs of one of the older senators, an elderly woman named Lo Valora, who was due to retire by the end of the year. Like the other government officials now in the First Order’s custody, she was either taken hostage as a mere demonstration of the FO’s power or selected for interrogation. If the former, she has a long stretch of solitary confinement to look forward to, at least until the First Order decides what they really want to do with her.

If the latter, Hux doesn’t know how she’ll survive the process.

He doesn’t know how any of them will.

Once the shuttle docks on its designated Star Destroyer, Hux’s cuffs are pulled off the hook, his hands left restrained in front of him as a stormtrooper grabs him by the elbow and leads him down the ramp and into the loading bay. It’s a hive of activity outside the shuttle, swarms of troopers marching across the polished black floor for deployment onto Talos Prime. More captives are unloaded from the surrounding shuttles, herded in the general direction of the Brig for detention. Hux’s lot and seven officials from the shuttle nearest his are instead led through a separate entrance. After a few turns down the winding corridors, Hux realizes they’re headed to the Medbay.

His heart sinks even further into his stomach.

It’s perhaps fortunate that he’s still in shock when he’s led, alone, into one of the examination rooms, where an older medical officer is typing away at the datapad in his hand. He glances up at Hux and then points his stylus at the folded bundle of white scrubs on the examination table. “Change into these, remove any items on your person, and then lie down,” he instructs before returning to his work.

The stormtrooper unlocks Hux’s cuffs, hooks them on his utility belt, and then steps back beside the door, rifle at the ready in his hands.

Slowly, numbly, Hux strips down, tossing his cloths onto a stool in the corner. He hesitates before removing his chrome wedding band, aching in an indescribable way when he finally sets it down gently on the small pile before pulling on the cotton trousers, short-sleeved shirt, and socks issued to him. The ID number sewed over his heart and upper back is 0113038151Z; seeing as they saw it fit to issue him one, they obviously expect him to be with them for quite some time.

That doesn’t, however, guarantee that his stay with them will be in any way pleasant.

Once dressed, he lies down on the table. Pressure-sensitive ankle and wrist restraints snap into place automatically, the metal cold against his skin.

The officer swipes his stylus across his datapad in one, long stroke, flicking it toward the holo-monitors at the foot of the table. Hux’s old medical file pops up in response. At a glance, Hux can see that a new tab has been added, no doubt for the Intelligence department.

Glancing down at Hux, the officer says, “Have you visited any planets outside the Talos system since your last check-up?”

Hux knows they’re testing him for foreign diseases because someone, most likely an intelligence officer, wants to interrogate him without having to worry about wearing armor. Prisoners occasionally spit, especially when they know they’re hosting something particularly vile. Blood also tends to fly in unexpected ways once a session is in full swing. Hux has seen it splattered virtually everywhere post-interrogation.

Hux doesn’t much care about the wellbeing of whoever’s been assigned to interrogate him, especially if it’s Rotan. Additionally, he doesn’t want them to know what his movements have been in the last three years, even if he hasn’t really left the Talos system in that time. There is, after all, no amount of information that is ever truly safe to share with the First Order.

The medical officer doesn’t look at all perturbed by the lack of an answer; he’s no doubt used to it. He opens the top drawer of the small cabinet beside the head of the table and begins pulling out supplies, such as a needle and a rack of vials. “Have you had unprotected sex with anyone outside the organization since your last check-up?” He continues. “Either penetrative or non-penetrative?”

It’s not a done deal, but Hux suppresses a shudder at the thought of someone being given the go-ahead to use sexual assault as an interrogation tactic against him.

Still, Hux says nothing.

The officer doesn’t care. He draws three vials of blood and inserts them into the small slots beneath his holo-monitors, then types in the command for the scans he wants the system to complete. The whole analysis takes less than a minute. With a soft ping, a new line is added to Hux’s medical file, a message that reads that ‘ _Armitage Hux_ (re: _Kilian Ko Connix_ )’ is completely clean.

The report is submitted to Intelligence with the push of a button. Then the officer returns to the cabinet and pulls out a tagger. Splaying one hand against the side of Hux’s head, he turns Hux’s face away from him, exposing the back of his neck. The mouth of the small gun is tucked up just a little to the left of his spine before the trigger is pulled, injecting a microchip somewhere in his nuchal ligament.

It’s an awful pinch. Hux flinches in pain, further startled by the restraints suddenly snapping open again.

The officer glances toward the stormtrooper still stationed beside the door and says, “You can take him now. I’ll have someone move his possessions to inventory.”

The trooper steps forward to cuff him once he’s up and off the table. Only when the medical officer steps aside does the older man look Hux in the eye. It’s nothing more than a glance, but Hux can tell the man is curious about something.

Not angry or afraid. Just curious.

Hux wonders how Ren tried to explain away his treachery and desertion. Traitors were usually executed on sight. Here, at least, he thought he would be treated with a little more vitriol, given that these people seem to know who he once was. Perhaps they don’t understand the extent to which he’s been working behind the scenes with the Resistance.

Or perhaps, knowing Captain Rotan was sent to collect him, they’re simply satisfied in knowing that he’s about to get his just deserts.

Which is more likely the case, he thinks, when he’s led down the corridor and spots Rotan at the far end beside the lift, hands folded together behind his back, two troopers stationed on either side of him. His hair is slicked back, and his posture is ramrod straight, and yet he somehow manages to look utterly relaxed when he smiles, eyeing Hux’s change of attire with obvious amusement when his prisoner approaches. “That was quick,” he says. “A clean bill of health, I take it?”

 _“The report is on its way to you now, sir,”_ the trooper escorting Hux replies. _“He’s clean. And tagged.”_

“Surprising, considering the scum he supposedly keeps for company.” The lift doors part soundlessly behind Rotan. He steps inside, all three troopers in tow, Hux nudged too close beside the Captain. Then they begin their descent.

Hux feels a little claustrophobic, and the back of his neck aches something fierce. He’s moments away from having a panic attack, he realizes, the one that’s been brewing ever since the First Order showed up on his proverbial doorstep, so he tries to keep his composure by picturing the lake in his mental sanctuary. He hasn’t visited the dreamscape in virtually forever, but he’s tempted to retreat there once they’ve begun the real show. He doesn’t know how he’ll to survive his interrogation otherwise.

However, he’s never had to endure pain while visiting the other plane of his existence. Will he be able to lose himself in those peaceful waters, or will his mind break with his body? Surely Ren, who is already well aware of Hux’s tricks, has informed his people how best to deal with their captive.

As expected, the next words out of Rotan’s mouth are, “I’ve been informed that you might prove impervious to our usual techniques. I’m not sure how, but I’m almost tempted to test that theory.”

 _‘Almost?’_ Hux wonders, confused.

“But I think I know a better way to get through to you,” he continues, staring up at Hux expectantly, as if waiting for him to plead for mercy—or, at the very least, acknowledge the threat Rotan poses to him.

Hux, with what sliver of courage remains, chooses to ignore him.

After a long, agonizing stretch of silence, Rotan turns his head aside toward one of his stormtroopers. “What room are we putting him in?” he asks.

_“015, sir.”_

“Tell Lieutenant Jhin to bring the smaller restraints. This isn’t going to work very well otherwise.”

 _“Yes, sir,”_ the trooper replies, taping the commlink on his helmet to pass that order along.

The doors to the lift slide open once again before Hux can ponder whether Rotan is making a stab at his slight figure or if he has something inventive in mind for said restraints. He’s led down the hall until they hit a T-intersection, where they then veer left toward a pair of stormtroopers waiting outside the aforementioned interrogation room, number 015.

And they’re not alone.

Hux recognizes Staff Sergeant Wane but not the young officer with her. Back on the _Finalizer_ , she had been in charge of Interpersonal Affairs, such as managing the care and education of children who were usually in transit to more permanent accommodations elsewhere, such as one of the First Order’s covert academies. All officers, senior or otherwise, were usually encouraged to contribute directly to the organization’s growing numbers, and so it wasn’t uncommon for female officers to remain on duty until the very bitter end of their pregnancy, before quickly finding somewhere safe to send their children planet-side and hopping back to work. Hux’s other self used to be quietly impressed with their resilience and sense of duty.

But Wane isn’t his primary focus presently, although Hux still takes note of the fact that she looks particularly livid where she stands resolutely between her companion and the door to the interrogation room. Rather, it’s the young officer, who looks only mildly annoyed by Wane’s interference.

In his arms, he’s holding a red-faced and seemingly exhausted Kirian.

Hux has been fighting back his fear since Rotan came to collect him on Talos Prime, but it twists into something ugly and cruel at the sight of his son, the flood gates folding under the sheer terror of seeing his child in the First Order’s custody. He feels a tightness in his chest and hears a rushing sound in his ears as he faintly asks, “What are you doing?”

“I thought this would be more effective than our traditional methods,” Rotan replies. “You’re fond of the little runt, aren’t you? So, I thought—hey now! Not so fast!”

Hux can barely hear him through the haze. His feet are moving of their own accord, carrying him quickly down the corridor, two stormtroopers jogging in his periphery as they race to catch up with him. One barks at him to halt, hooking her hand around his right elbow in an attempt to slow him, but Hux keeps moving forward. What eventually stops him is the full-body tackle delivered to him from behind.

But he doesn’t slam face-first into the floor like he thought he would.

Instead, he’s sucked down into the cold, quiet depths of the lake.

He sinks into the water and freezes for a moment, confused and angry and afraid. There are still two arms wrapped around him from behind, but the trooper that tackled him quickly releases him now, panicking, kneeing Hux in the hip as he thrashes toward the surface. It’s a losing game. As Hux twists around, he can see that the trooper isn’t going anywhere fast. In fact, when he catches Hux a second time on the shin with his flailing limbs, Hux plants his foot against the trooper’s chest and gives him a good, hard shove downward, off toward the shadowy depths of the lake.

He doesn’t stick around to watch their mad scramble for salvation, instead kicking his own way up for air with practiced ease. When he breaks the surface, he spots another stormtrooper not to far from him, also thrashing, although so far managing to stay afloat. Her white-capped head bobs up and down, sinking and resurfacing as she fights the downward pull to her watery grave.

Watching her, Hux feels a familiar swell of cold fury and dark satisfaction in the pit of his stomach. The tension in his body slowly unfurls, all that anger and excitement flowing freely through him now, heady and fulfilling. It feels like an emancipation of the soul.

It feels like _power_.

He keeps his eyes on that bobbing white head. They’re in the middle of the lake, far from the shore—too far for the trooper to swim, especially with all that armor. Sooner or later, fatigue will win out and gravity will drag her under. Hux just can’t decide if he wants to wait here and watch or take a more active role in his assailant’s passing.

A small wave passes over the soldier’s head. Hux spots a flailing hand before the trooper manages to correct her position again, arms slapping down against the surface of the water, as if trying to push herself up, so childish and futile.

Hux feels another surge of energy inside him, spearheaded by his anger. His fury has given him tunnel vision. He’s having trouble focusing on anything but the stormtrooper. It takes him a moment to remind himself of why he’s here in the first place, and, even then, it’s only because he catches a glimpse of something white in the corner of his eye, someone standing on the distant shore, and hears a familiar voice whispering his son’s name in his ear—

He comes to lying on the floor, half curled over onto his side, watching as the stormtrooper who grabbed his arm is helped to her feet, her helmet now tossed aside as she sucks in a deep, shuddering breath. Another trooper is trying to talk her down from hyperventilating, strongly insinuating that she needs to put her helmet back on if she doesn’t want to be reprimanded for her behavior. The other trooper, whom Hux spots as he pushes himself up onto his knees, is stretched out on the ground, having been rolled over onto his back by another set of guards, almost entirely stationary but for the awkward twitch of his left leg.

A medical officer suddenly breezes into view, immediately crouching over the unconscious man. Hux watches them, baffled, until he hears Rotan’s heels clicking sharply together as he says, “Supreme Leader.”

Hux’s head snaps forward, any vestiges of his anger or confusion fading with the next fearful flutter of his heart. He’s not ready for this.

But then, when will he ever be ready?

Ren has joined their strange tableau in relative silence. To all outside appearances, he hasn’t changed much from what Hux remembers of him. He still wears his dark hair long and loose, and he favors the same black tunic and cape, although there’s the shadow of a beard on his chin and the long gash that once marred his features has now almost entirely healed. Hux, who always imagined Ren would re-enter his life quite explosively, is admittedly surprised to see the man with his features carefully schooled, giving little insight to his thoughts as he draws an impassive eye over the fallen stormtrooper.

It feels as though a small eternity passes as Ren takes in the scene, everyone else standing silently at attention, save for the medic, who is just beginning to rouse her patient, and Hux, who is still frozen on his knees, unsure of what to say or do. Even Wane manages to look as still as stone, and she has Kirin perched against her left hip, having evidently stolen him back from her subordinate, although it probably helps that Kirian is behaving himself, head resting against her shoulder, frowning curiously at Ren.

Inevitably, the spell is broken. Ren inclines his head toward Wane and takes a moment to look at the boy, holding Kirian’s gaze for just a second too long. Hux feels like his heart is about to explode, so much adrenaline has been dumped into his system—but Ren eventually looks away, shifting his attention to Wane as he says, “Put him back with the other children. He is, after all, the son of an officer.”

“Yes, sir,” she says.

“You are dismissed.”

With a smart salute, she walks briskly down the corridor. Kirian keeps his head perched against her shoulder, staring back at Hux, his face pinched with sorrow. Even so, the boy does a remarkable job of keeping it all in, and Hux slowly begins to feel a little less like he’s going to have a heart attack the farther Wane carries him away.

Eventually, they disappear around a corner. Hux finally returns his attention to Ren.

Ren, predictably, is staring directly at him.

Cautiously, Hux rises to his feet. Whatever sense of power he felt in his dreamscape, taking those troopers to task, fled the moment Ren entered the equation again. Hux isn’t too sure if the man is able to invade his mind the way he did once before, but there’s nothing to stop him from crushing Hux’s throat on a whim. Ren, regrettably, will always have the upper hand between them.

Ren takes his time sizing him up, his expression carefully blank, keeping his cards close to his chest. Afterward, his steely gaze shifts to Hux’s right, zeroing in on Rotan. “You’ve returned early, Captain.”

Rotan takes a small step forward, finally situating himself within Hux’s peripheral vision. “The infiltration was more successful than we anticipated, sir. Everyone we hoped to collect is now either aboard this ship or one of our other Star Destroyers.”

“Then it sounds as though you have your work set out for you.”

“Yes, sir, which is why—”

“Rotan,” Ren interjects, voice level, betraying nothing of his emotions. For some reason, Hux finds that most unsettling. “My comment on his unusual talents was not an invitation to test his limits. I alone will deal with him.”

Something clenches in the pit of his stomach, but Hux doesn’t flinch. Instead, he tries to focus on the remarkable fact that Ren hasn’t flattened Rotan with the Force for what appears to be an oversight on the Captain’s part. Either he’s learned to keep a cool head in situations not entirely to his liking, or he’s gotten better at stowing his anger away for another time and place—in this case, possibly the moment he and Hux are finally alone together.

It would be an understatement to say Hux is dreading it.

“You are dismissed,” Ren continues, finishing off this minor reprimand without much fanfare. Then he glances at the remaining stormtroopers and says, “Bring him.”

The trooper behind Hux gives him a small nudge forward with what feels like the business end of his rifle, keeping all physical contact between them to a minimum as Hux reluctantly falls into line. Rotan remains where he is, watching as Hux is led down the corridor after Ren. Hux can feel the man’s eyes burning into the back of his head as he’s taken out into the main sector and then on through to the senior officers’ suites and offices, always just a few paces behind Ren, their small entourage moving briskly through the polished black and white halls. Hux gets a few glances here and there, but no one pays him much mind; honestly, he wonders if anyone recognizes him without the uniform or copper hair.

Soon, they turn the corner down a dimly lit corridor. There’s a solitary door at the far end. On either side of it stands one each of what Hux assumes are Ren’s Elite Guard, adorned with the same fit and fashion of armor as Snoke’s Praetorian soldiers, although light grey instead of the traditional red. They stand stock still as Ren approaches and says, “No one is to disturb us.” At that point, only the one on the left moves then, and that’s only to give the slightest bow of his head.

The door slides open, and Ren disappears into an even darker room, lit only by a few floor lights along the far wall. Hux follows him without coaxing, only half listening to the gentle hiss of the door as it slides shut behind him. There’s a lead weight in his stomach, and his heart is now beating quite pathetically against his ribs, gradually losing momentum; he feels like he’s reaching the last reserves of his adrenaline. He’s so tired…

He doesn’t really have the energy to fight whatever happens next.

Though Ren led him here in haste, he moves slowly now. He takes a few steps toward what Hux assumes is his throne, the sole piece of furniture in this spacious room, which looks more like a high-backed chair than anything else, and then stops. Hux can hear Ren slipping off his gloves, back still turned, as the young Supreme Leader says, “Did you think I wouldn’t find you?”

If Hux searches himself for an honest answer, he’ll find that he never truly felt as though he’d gotten away. He always felt as though Ren was coming for him, and he was right.

Somehow, Hux finds his voice. “No,” he says, “but…I had always hoped you wouldn’t.”

Ren turns his head to one side, acknowledging Hux’s response but giving no indication of his thoughts on it.

“How long have you known where I was?” Hux asks, even though he’s not sure he wants to know the answer.

There’s an uncomfortable pause before Ren says, “A little over two years.”

Hux feels mildly sick at his response. A little over two years, Hux had really only begun to find his stride in his civilian life. Kaydel would’ve still been pregnant—and heavily so, more or less bedridden at that point with how sore and lethargic she felt all the time. Together, they were in no condition to run.

Knowing that Ren already had his sights on them as far back as then, poised and ready to strike at a moment’s notice, sends a shiver down his spine. Ren could’ve come for them in their sleep—killed them all in a heartbeat, if he truly felt like it.

Hux wants to know _how_ Ren found them, but Ren is already moving forward with their conversation. He finally turns around, his dark eyes boring into Hux as he says, “I was surprised to discover that you were already well on your way to becoming a father. Then again, the fact that you were having a child helped to alleviate some of my…confusion.”

Hux wonders if by ‘confusion’ he really means ‘anger’, because the two were really one and the same when it came to Ren. Even so, Hux doesn’t quite understand what he’s talking about. “Concerning what?” he asks.

Ren advances a step; Hux forces himself to hold his gaze and not back away in response. “Concerning your female companion,” he replies, voice low, deceptively calm, but his eyes tell a different story; if Ren could consume him with his gaze alone, he would’ve devoured Hux by now. “It’s simple biology, the desire to produce a child. It’s also a part of your higher programing, isn’t it, to fight for the First Order and to contribute to the next generation of officers and soldiers? In fact, we could almost consider your offspring compensation for lost profit, assuming he’s ever as resourceful as you were on one of your better days.”

So much of what Ren just said turns his stomach, though largely the notion of his little boy growing up to become an unwitting member of the same organization Hux has tried so hard to destroy. The dig at his wife and the backhanded comment about Hux’s seemingly primitive need to have a female ‘companion’ also sting, but Hux can easily stomach those slights in comparison to the notion that Kirian’s future is entirely in the First Order’s hands.

Hux doesn’t want Ren to focus on his son, considering the very real danger Kirian is in by being here, so he changes gears as quickly as he can. “I love my wife,” he says, drawing Ren’s attention back to the relationship between himself and Kaydel, who is somewhere far away and safe right now. Or, so he hopes…

“I think you like the idea of having a wife,” Ren replies. He’s somehow moved closer, his large frame shifting quietly, until he’s close enough to touch Hux if he wanted. “But you don’t love her. Not really. She was once just a nameless, faceless creature at the back of your mind, the catalyst for what you really wanted. I saw a glimpse of her the first time we made love—do you remember?”

As a rule, Hux tries very hard not to think about their more intimate moments together, but he does recall the afterglow of their first tryst, lying there and wondering how curious it was to finally find companionship at the opposite end of the spectrum of his expectations. Back then, he faintly entertained the possibility of having a wife and child, of living a ‘normal’ life, but he had little reason to believe he would ever obtain those things. His dream felt like such an abstract idea at the time, which is probably what Ren was picking up on. That didn’t, however, invalidate his feelings for the family he has now.

“I remember,” Hux replies, conceding that point, although only to appease Ren. He doubts they made anything approaching ‘love,’ but he can’t afford to rile the other man up too much, lest his temper boil over in an unpredictable way.

Ren tilts his head back ever so slightly, a quiet sign of satisfaction, happy to hear that small capitulation. Just like when they were co-commanders.

It’s good to see some things haven’t changed.

“She gave you a child,” Ren continues, obviously eager to hammer this lesson home, to show him that any meaningful relationship Hux has had outside the First Order doesn’t measure up to whatever brief and corrupted thing shared between them, “but if you really cared about her, I think you would’ve married her before a child was already on the way—but that, in turn, raises the question of whether there would’ve been a marriage in the first place without a child.”

Stars, _that_ genuinely hurts.

While it might be true that marriage didn’t occur to them until Kaydel found out she was pregnant, Hux’s attachment to her wasn’t nearly as superficial as Ren imagined. He knows he has no one but himself to blame for what appears to be a shotgun wedding—living an unfettered life after thirty-four years of servitude to a malicious organization is a recipe for disaster once you add a few nights of too much alcohol and genuinely good company to the mix—but he was fond of Kaydel before they realized Kirian was on his way, thank you very much, and he’s already spent a great deal of time and effort convincing his wife of that.

With his own temper simmering beneath the surface, it takes some effort not to let anything more than a hint of sarcasm bleed into his voice as he says, “I guess we’ll never know the answer.”

There’s a twitch at the corner of Ren’s mouth, amusement at seeing Hux flinch at one of his barbs. He knows just how much pain he’s really inflicting on Hux, and he’s reveling in it. “You’re too proud,” Ren replies. “Either you don’t want admit that there’s not much of a difference between you and your other self or you don’t have the self-awareness to realize that Armitage Hux doesn’t fall in love. Not so easily, anyway. What he _does_ is use other people to his benefit—but that, I think is a conversation for another time.”

Hux is too proud, that much he’ll admit, because he _doesn’t_ want to just stand there in silence as Ren passes judgement on him, even though he knows Ren is aiting him. He wants so badly to call Ren out for being the delusional and vain child that he clearly still is, to set the record straight for what Hux does or does not consider a significant relationship in his eyes.

But he bites his tongue again, because he really can’t afford to let Ren claw his way any further under his skin.

Ren pauses, waiting for a response. When Hux denies him the satisfaction of one, he gives Hux another brief once-over and says, “Where is my mother?”

It takes Hux’s brain a moment to process that non sequitur. Once it does, his answer is automatic. “I don’t know.”

Truly, he doesn’t. In fact, very few people in the Resistance know where she is at any given time, precisely to avoid giving away her location to the First Order. That’s been their policy ever since the massacre on Crait. Rey, of course, is likewise inaccessible to mostly everyone in their ranks and will likely remain as such until her confidence in her students is high enough that she can safely leave them to their own devices.

“You know I can’t simply take your word for it,” Ren replies quietly. His eyes gleam dangerously in the low light. “Open yourself to me, and this will be painless.”

Hux’s heart jumps into his throat, and he freezes. He hasn’t _welcomed_ anyone into his mind since his unconventional adventure with Dantalian Fox. Granted, he nearly dragged two stormtroopers to their watery grave less than an hour ago, but that was more of a reflex than a conscious decision, and his motivation then had been purely for the wellbeing of his son. He doesn’t want Ren haunting the most sacred chambers of his mind again—in fact, Ren is the _last_ person he wants poking around in there. He’d rather give Snoke the grand tour, if he were still alive; at least Ren’s predecessor was an impersonal enemy.

He wonders if Ren can smell the fear coming off him. During their last encounter, Hux was able to banish him from his mind. He doesn’t know if that minor success was a fluke from catching Ren off guard or if Hux truly has the power to keep him out—or, rather, _had_ the power to keep him out. That was nearly three years ago. In the time they spent as co-commanders, even Hux could see how quickly Ren’s own powers could grow. Hux probably doesn’t stand a chance against him now.

And, in fact, he doesn’t.

Ren hasn’t even raised his hand yet, and already Hux can feel the pressure building against his temples. Instinctively, something rears up inside him against the foreign entity, but the fight is short-lived. A second wave breaches him, tearing its way through into his mind, burning him up from the inside out.

Through the haze of his agony, Hux sees snippets of his life: a stray thought of his father with his stiletto knife and then another of Luke sitting across from him before a roaring fire—a snippet of receiving the rank of General in front of a small congregation of officers—landing on _Starkiller_ and being blown away by a pseudo-assassin, as per Ren’s ploy to win his alliance—Holdo standing on the bridge of her ship, graceful and stalwart in her final moments—Leia Organa greeting him on the Millennium Falcon, worn out from their ordeal on Crait—Kaydel giving their son his first tub bath two weeks after his birth, remarking on how beautiful their little boy is—Leia, again, congratulating him on his formal acceptance into the lower chamber—Leia, _again_ , bearing bad news about a good friend—Leia’s hologram delivering him recent intel on the First Order and asking him to make a prediction about their next attack—Leia sitting in their tiny kitchen, holding Kirian, smiling as the babe hoots in delight—Leia—Leia— _Leia_ —anything and everything he knows about Leia, and eventually Rey, too, though Hux’s direct interactions with her have always been far more limited—

But nothing in here is what Ren wants.

Hux comes back to his senses slowly, dark splotches obscuring his vision, ears ringing, feeling the floor rock precariously beneath him. He is lying on the floor, rolled over onto his right side, trying to focus on the beams of light against the far wall and the silhouette of Ren sitting on his throne, one leg crossed casually over the other as he silently watches Hux struggle to make sense of the sudden temporal shift in reality.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been out, only that he’s covered in a cold sweat, his head feels as though someone’s taken a mallet to it, and he’s about as weak as a newborn. He doesn’t want to move, but he does. Carefully, he pushes himself up, cuffed hands braced against the floor, sitting sideways against his hip. It takes more effort than he would like to admit raising his head toward Ren.

“I told you not to resist,” Ren says, quiet but clear. His voice carries remarkably well in the empty space around them.

There’s a painful lump in his throat that Hux tries to swallow down; he hopes he wasn’t screaming throughout the whole ordeal. “Do you believe me now?” he asks, voice nothing more than a low rasp.

In the dim light, Hux can make out the subtle shift in Ren’s posture as he braces his left elbow against the armrest of his chair and rests the corner of his jaw against his closed fist. After a long stretch of silence, he says, “I do, but it still surprises me that you were kept out of the loop. It seems as though nobody had any real doubt that we would be reunited one day. Even you.”

“It’s a normal precaution.”

“You feel differently,” Ren says with the softest sound of satisfaction.

Hux knows, somewhere deep inside, that Ren speaks the truth.

He was born in this dark little corner of the universe, cloistered away in this metal trap of a ship, kept in the closest of company with his dearest enemies—and this is where he would inevitably die, too, as he unwittingly decided ages ago when he asked Luke to return him to the First Order instead of taking the man’s offer of absolute freedom.

There’s a minor tremor in his arms as he tries to keep himself braced upright; he still feels weak and feverish, like he could collapse again at any moment. Part of him wonders why he even bothers holding himself up. Ren has robbed him, once again, of his dignity and pride. His agency, too, because he remembers Ren’s promise, the threat of breaking Hux down and building him up again…

“Kilian Ko _Connix_ ,” Ren says, carefully enunciating each word, emphasizing the Ks and the C. “Given your experience, you’ve been selected as the liaison between the First Order and the Talos government. Two thirds of the upper chamber have been left on Talos Prime, which is the required quorum to continue all government operations. It is your duty to relay our requests to them concerning all future legislations in their system and to share with us any questions they might have regarding this transition of power. There are, of course, other matters I would like to discuss with you, but as you seem rather unwell, I think they can wait.”

As if on cue, the door behind Hux slides open. Given the trouble he has simply sitting there, he doesn’t bother turning his head to see who’s been wordlessly summoned to join them. He doesn’t need to, in any case, because he can hear the heavy gait of the stormtroopers as they march into the room and drag him up off the floor, one on either side of him, arms hooked with his own.

Ren waits until Hux is, more or less, standing before he says, “You are dismissed.”

Hux’s right knee collapses momentarily from exhaustion, but the troopers hold him steady as they turn him toward the door. Four other stormtroopers and a rather young Lieutenant are waiting for him out in the hall. The Lieutenant only waits long enough for the door to slide shut again before she turns sharply on her heel and leads their little entourage through the winding corridors to what Hux soon realizes is the Brig.

They’ve taken him to the uppermost level of the Brig, which is where solitary confinement and the cells for political prisoners are located. Hux is dragged down to the far end of this hall and deposited in a small room containing nothing more than a cot bolted to the wall in one corner and an uncovered pseudo-en suite situated in the other. The solitary ceiling light above him is near blinding, glaring off the polished white and chrome surfaces—up until a few seconds after the door locks behind him. Then it simply goes out, plunging him into absolute darkness.

Hux sits on the floor for a minute, trying to decide if the room is spinning or if he’s imagining things, and then, from there, wondering what the consequences of moving would be. Thankfully, he’s close enough to the cot that when he reaches out with his cuffed hands, he finds the edge of the mattress with relative ease. He then takes a moment to collect himself, mentally braced for the worst, before hauling himself onto the bed.

Moving such a short distance, from floor to cot, just about drains him completely. He tips over before he even realizes he’s leaning too far to one side. Fortunately, his head hits the flimsy mattress, though the room continues to spin, and his temples are still throbbing in agony. It takes him very little effort to surrender to the vicious pull of unconsciousness as he wills his body to relax, wishing for a small reprieve from the constant motion and pain.

He knows it’s quite likely that this is the only moment of reprieve he’ll ever get.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Again, I apologize for the long delay in updating. I agonized quite a bit over how much information to include in this chapter, especially during Ren's little conversation with Hux. Then I remembered, Ren technically has all the time in the world to deal with Hux, so there's no need to rush things now.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed the chapter!


	3. Solitude

~***~

_“If you think anyone is sane, you just don't know enough about them.”_

― Christopher Moore

~***~

He’s somewhere in the in-between.

It takes him a painfully long time to figure this out. Even then, he’s doesn’t know what to do with this information. He’s dreaming—he must be, because starships don’t normally take on water like this. What’s as equally _un_ real about this phenomenon is that he somehow doesn’t feel anxious about it, standing out in one of the corridors, water sloshing up against his calves as a red emergency flashes overhead. He feels far removed from the situation, as if any peril that exists in this moment does not extend to him.

In fact, emotionally, he feels nothing. Physically, though, he feels a little feverish. He reaches out to touch the nearest wall, steadying himself, and then bows his head forward as bile rises in the back of his throat. He fights to keep the contents of his stomach down as he stares at the water now lapping at his knees, black and oily, mucked up with the residue of whatever’s been gathering behind the wall panels over the years. The sight of it only worsens his nausea.

He lifts his head again and wakes.

Hux is lying on his cot, the one bolted to the wall in the corner of his cell. His solitary ceiling light is on now, though only dimly. He can hear a rattling at the door as a slot is opened and a tray is pushed through, laden with what appears to be food and minor supplies.

His stomach settles as he lies there for a moment longer. Once he’s certain he won’t be sick, he sits up slowly on the cot, neck still aching where they tagged him earlier. He rubs the tender muscle there and then rises to his feet to retrieve his things.

They’ve given him a bowl of the standard white gruel everyone aboard their starships eat, highly nutritious but completely bland—just the way he prefers it, actually. They’ve also given him an empty cup, presumably to fill with water from his open en suite’s sink, as well as a toothbrush, a packet of mouth paste, and a bottle of body soap. They’ve also graciously given him a small towel and, remarkably, a shaving razor. Of course, there are white outlines on the tray for the razor, toothbrush, and bowl, implying that he needs to return these once he’s sorted himself out for the day, but he’s surprised they would trust him with a blade after what happened in Holom’s office, even if he’s not classified as a suicide risk.

Though he feels as though it took the very last of his energy reserves to get out of bed, he fights the urge to sleep again and instead begins his usual routine. Routines, in general, are usually the right way to go when you don’t feel like doing much of anything. It requires minimal brainpower and keeps you on you moving, a little something to pass the time.

He sits on the edge of his cot and sets the tray down beside him. Picking up the bowl of gruel and its complementary spoon, he gradually works his way through only a quarter of the meal, his appetite buried somewhere under his fear for his child. He can’t get Kirian’s tear-stained face or tired eyes out of his mind. The boy has never been separated from one of his parents for more than six hours at a time; Hux honestly can’t imagine how he’s fairing right now.

When he’s eaten about as much as he can manage, he sets the bowl down on the tray again and grabs the toiletries, setting them down on the narrow lip of the metal sink in the corner. The tiny mirror above it reflects a total stranger from the ‘General’, that old spectre of the stars. Though Hux feels utterly drained today, he’s nowhere near the pasty fellow he used to be, his skin now lightly tanned from regular exposure to the sun, with a faint dusting of freckles over the bridge of his nose. He doesn’t necessarily need a shave, but he cuts off the barely visible bristles of hair around his mouth and jaw anyway and brushes his teeth. Then he glances at the showerhead jutting from the wall beside him—no screen to speak of, naturally—sighs, and gets that business out of the way as quickly as possible.

Going through the motions of his morning routine does, in some small way, help to rouse him from his stupor. In fact, by the time he’s towelled himself dry and redressed, he can feel his anger stirring just beneath the surface. He’s angry at himself, naturally, for allowing his family to fall into the First Order’s clutches so easily, but more so at Ren, of course, for being the elitist, intergalactic brute he’s always been. Ren had the potential to be so much better than this—he could’ve _destroyed_ the First Order if he so desired, but he’s just another power-hungry degenerate with an ego too far inflated for anyone’s good.

Eventually the slot on the door pops open again. Returning the razor, toothbrush, spoon, and bowl to the tray, he pushes it halfway through the slot and allows the droid on the other side to take it from there. At that point, Hux half expects them to plunge him back into darkness, but, instead, he hears the lock on the door pop a second before the whole thing slides open, revealing four troopers and a rather fresh-looking officer.

The woman eyes him up briefly before she says, “The General would like to speak with you.”

“Which General is this?” Hux asks softly, wondering what the vetting process would’ve looked like for finding someone crazy enough to be willing stationed on the same ship as Ren.

“General Tehr,” she replies, a split-second before it dawns on her that she really doesn’t have to share any information with him. Frowning, she takes a step back and gestures down the corridor. “Come along.”

Sighing, Hux steps out of his cell, falling in line behind two stormtroopers as the small group herds him to the General Tehr’s office, which is a ten-minute walk from the Brig. They pass quite a few officers along the way, none of which are bold enough to glance at Hux for more than a second, as if afraid that staring at him will result in unforeseen consequences. He wonders if this behaviour has something to do with his unnatural reaction to those stormtroopers the other day or something else.

Before too long, they reach Tehr’s office. The name sounds familiar to Hux, but it isn’t until he’s ushered through the door that he recognizes the woman. She’s a young officer, not much older than himself, dark hair pulled back in a severe bun—almost a spitting image of a younger Rae Sloane, his old mentor. However, where Grand Admiral Sloane was a loud and commanding individual, Hux always remembered ‘Colonel’ Vam Tehr to be quiet and composed, though no less dangerous. They were both vipers in their own way, cold and calculating, the sort of person Hux’s other self got along with just swimmingly.

The newly minted General is seated at her desk in front of the sole viewport in the room, datapad in hand, poring over her work until her office door slides shut behind Hux. They’re alone now, a soldier and her captive, but that doesn’t seem to bother her. In fact, she leans back slightly when she sees him and waves a hand at the chair opposite her desk. “Have a seat, please.”

Hux takes the proffered chair, settling onto the cold leather stiffly. Tehr has the AC set to normal, but the cool air is a tad uncomfortable against his still-damp hair.

“I’ve been told that you were already informed of your new duties,” Tehr begins, glancing one last time at her datapad before switching off the screen and setting it down on her desk. “The Supreme Leader would like you to act as a liaison between the First Order and what remains of the Talos government.”

“Do you currently have any information you would like me to relay to them?”

“I do. In about an hour, you will be briefed on the current status of the other officials in our custody, as per Talos’ request. In return, you are to ask them for the current whereabouts of their 14 warships in Doltarian airspace. You will also dictate to them the pre-written message we’ve instructed them to share within the public concerning the recent takeover.”

Hux isn’t surprised that the First Order is still apparently interested in stealing the Doltarian’s resources. He would bet anything they wanted the kyber crystals most of all.

“Is that everything?” he asks, wondering why she would call him in to discuss this matter when one of her many lackies could have just as easily relayed these orders to him.

Tehr braces her elbows against the armrests of her chair and begins fiddling with a small silver band on her left index finger. Her brow furrows gently as she stares at him in silence, taking him in, as if there is something about him that she doesn’t quite understand. Hux doesn’t blame her for her confusion. They were never close, but she had seen the way his old self used to strut aboard the _Finalizer_ , as cold and cruel as any of her other senior officers, so different from the man he is today.

“You have changed, haven’t you,” she muses. “The Supreme Leader said they got inside your head. Why else, I wonder, would the ‘Grand Marshal’ cross over to the enemy right after decimating their ranks?”

“The Resistance was never my enemy,” he replies, wondering what sort of story Ren tried to feed them once they realized he was gone. “Do you think they hypnotized me?”

“Brainwashing is hardly a new invention,” she sighs, “and I’ve already seen how effectively Force users can change a man’s mind.”

“I wasn’t brainwashed.”

“I know you probably believe that.” Tehr pulls her ring off her index finger and slides it down to the first knuckle of her middle finger; she always was a fidgeter. “Again, why else would one of the most powerful men in the universe throw away everything to join the losing side? I mean, they even kept you with the same handler all these years, that woman who abducted you from _Starkiller_. How strange, don’t you think?”

“I have a child with her. I don’t know many ‘handlers’ who build a family with their asset.”

“An emotional tactic,” Tehr shrugs. “You’re certainly softer than the man I remember.”

Frustrated, Hux takes a slow, deep breath, trying not to let his agitation show. Naturally, his old comrades would be resistant to the truth, even if Ren was the one who initially spewed this nonsense at them. Having your senior-most officer defect to the other side after massacring his ‘enemy’ _is_ a confusing concept to wrap one’s mind around—and a heavy blow to one’s pride, considering what the FO lost that day. If the Grand Marshal was apparently capable of re-evaluating his conscience, it would no doubt give strength to any other insecure members of the First Order. After all, he doubts Finn was ever the only stormtrooper to question his purpose in their organization.

“Fine,” Hux eventually sighs, seeing no reason to argue. Tehr and the rest of the FO can believe what they like. That doesn’t change who he is or what he’s done. “Colour me brainwashed. Was that all you wanted to discuss then, General?”

“I suppose.” Straightening in her seat, she slips her ring back onto her index finger.

“Then I have a question for you,” Hux replies, though he doesn’t know if she would be willing to answer it.

Tehr crooks an eyebrow at him, curious. After a beat, she gives a slight nod.

Hux doesn’t bother with subtlety in his inquiry: “How do you feel about the new Supreme Leader?”

“That’s a bold question,” Tehr laughs, a quick bark of disbelief, clearly surprised he would be so forward. She doesn’t look displeased by the question though. “I know you had a complicated relationship with him when you were co-commanders, but he and I have no qualms.” She gestures vaguely to the stars on her collar. “He quite generously promoted me after culling the older generation of officers unwilling to submit to his rule, and he’s demonstrated on more than one occasion that he’s a greater strategist than anyone ever really gave him credit for. In short, I believe he’s capable of winning this war—and now I sincerely hope you don’t think overthrowing the Talos system was just a fluke.”

“Not at all,” he replies softly, because he knows it couldn’t have been a fluke. The Talos government wasn’t as willfully ignorant as the Hosnian System when it came to the many intergalactic criminal organizations in existence. Overthrowing the government would’ve taken a considerable amount of time and effort to plan out, considering how flawlessly the First Order achieved their objective here. “But he has quite the temper. I’m surprised you would be willing to work so closely with him.”

“I believe his old frustrations stemmed mainly from his treatment at the hands of our late Supreme Leader.” She tilts her head back slightly, glancing past him, pondering. “That’s not to say he doesn’t still have a temper, but he’s learned to direct it better, I believe.”

Hux can see why she would think that, given that Ren apparently cut down the competition for her next big promotion. It was often too simple to confuse good fortune for fate.

“Despite the old adage,” Hux replies, “the enemy of your enemy is not necessarily your friend, General.”

Tehr looks at him again, frowning gently, as if she doesn’t know whether or not he’s trying to insult her here. “…I don’t need your pity. Or your advice.”

Hux shrugs. “Do with it what you will.”

She eyes him up again, like she still doesn’t understand him. Then she taps her datapad, the screen lighting up as she punches in a message to someone. “Speaking of tempers, I was informed of your behavior yesterday. I think it goes without saying that you should think long and hard before giving us a repeat performance. Your failure to cooperate will result in dire consequences, the likes of which I don’t think I need to describe to you. Is that clear?”

He doesn’t know if he’s capable of a repeat performance—pulling people into his sanctuary isn’t quite a conscious decision on his part—but he nods anyway, because he doesn’t want anyone getting edgy around Kirian again, and because he has no desire to revisit the darkness lurking within his psyche.

“Good, now—” she taps the datapad a second time, and her office door slides open “—you will relay our message to the Talos government, and then you will be escorted back to your cell, where you will remain until we either need you again or the Knights of Ren finally decide what they want to do with you.”

“The Knights of Ren?” Hux asks, confused. If someone wanted to rummage through his mind for more information, Ren already knew how to do that. In fact, he somehow figured Ren would always want to be the one to rummage through his mind, much like it was his own personal playground.

“Well, you’re one of their ilk,” she replies, as if mildly annoyed by that fact. “They apparently have their own set of rules that your kind must adhere to, so I imagine either Seir or Xanx will want to put you through your paces.”

When he was an officer of the FO, Hux recalls seeing a few of Ren’s lackeys at a distance—Seir, he remembers, was also one of Luke’s former students. Hux doesn’t know who Xanx is, although it hardly comes to him as a surprise that Ren managed to bring more people into the fold over the years. After all, Rey was likewise building herself a small army of Force users, some of whom claimed to have been either approached or downright pursued by individuals garbed in dark robes, much like the members of Ren’s little cult.

Hux doesn’t know if he would consider himself one of ‘their kind’. His sanctuary was made by outside forces, and he doesn’t have complete control over the reality around him outside that peculiar place either. In fact, neither Rey nor Leia ever pushed him toward making better use of his unusual ability, if it could even be considered that, because the man who gave it to him and knew it best was unfortunately long dead.

Even so, Hux is interested in knowing what Ren and his ‘ilk’ want with it.

“You are dismissed,” Tehr says.

Rising from his seat, Hux returns to the corridor, where four stormtroopers are waiting for him with a different officer. This fellow is a bit older than Hux, a touch of silver at his temples and the gentle crease of age at the corner of his eyes. The military pips over his breast indicate he’s a Captain.

The man lowers his datapad when Tehr’s door slides shut again. “Follow me,” he says, immediately leading the charge to their next destination.

With a sigh, Hux follows suit.

The gentlemen, as he introduces himself, is Captain Streif, one of the heads of Communications. He walks Hux through what details he is or is not allowed to share during the meeting and what particular instructions he’s expected to pass along. The man speaks at an incredible pace, seemingly without breathing, which is why they’ve almost made it to one of the communication stations before Hux is able to ask, “When will I get to see the other prisoners?”

“We already have a detailed account of who we picked up from the planet and why,” Streif replies, pulling up a chart on his datapad before handing it to Hux. At a glance, Hux sees the count in the top left-hand corner: 166 senators, 153 councilmen, and 1 civilian; that last one is obviously Kirian.

While Hux is relieved that no other children were picked up during the invasion, thinking about how alone his boy must feel right now is killing him.

“One of the first things they’re going to ask me is whether I know, firsthand, that everyone you abducted is alright.”

Captain Streif finally slows his gait, side-eyeing Hux as if he’s not sure whether he should care about any such demand. Eventually, though, he says, “Very well. Pick a name from the list and we will arrange a short meeting—with the exception of Senator Trass. He suffered a heart attack a few hours ago and is currently in Medbay.”

Only a single heart attack after this whole fiasco sounds like a small miracle, but Hux has no doubts Streif is probably glossing over whatever minor injuries their captives have sustained in the meantime.

“Senator Gre,” Hux replies, spotting the man’s name immediately. He’ll start with someone he knows and perhaps ask for someone else the next time he’s supposed to speak with a representative on Talos.

Streif takes the datapad from him and glances down the list, seemingly looking for Gre’s current whereabouts. Then he makes their little group backtrack a few corridors toward the Brig, once again walking at a fast clip. He stops at room 1143, waves an access card over the door sensor, and glances at the time on his datapad. “You have two minutes.”

The door slides open to reveal four senators in the same prisoner garb as his own, two sitting on the farthest cot and two others standing before them, deep in conversation. Gre is the only one Hux is personally acquainted with, but the others recognize him as well. They all move to greet him as he steps into the room, though they look hesitant with Streif still lingering in the doorway.

“Are you being thrown in with our lot, Connix?” Senator Hrim asks, glancing at the four cots in the room. They’re at full capacity, evidently.

“Regrettably, I’m not,” though he secretly wishes he hadn’t been sent to solitary confinement. “I’ve been chosen as a liaison for our government. I asked to see you to determine how you’ve been holding up so far.”

“It’s been nothing but radio silence from our wonderful _hosts_ ,” Gre mutters, staring blatantly at Streif. Then he shifts his gaze to Hux, eyes softening. “Do you have any idea what they’re going to do with us?”

Gre was one of the few people that knew Hux had a history with the First Order. Hux never told him his real name, rank, or overall dealings with the organization, but it’s obvious Gre understands that Hux was chosen for this service as a part of some greater punishment.

“Beyond interrogations?” Hux sighs, glancing back at Streif. “When so many people are taken in a single sweep, the usual protocol is to deliver them to a landbound prison camp…Isn’t that so, Captain?”

“We haven’t decided yet,” Streif replies. “And even if we did, I don’t believe that’s something your people need to know.”

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Gre grumbles.

Streif, sounding almost bored, glances down at his datapad again. “One minute, Councilman.”

“How many people did they take?” Gre asks, realizing their time is limited.

“Three hundred and twenty.”

The old man grimaces at the number. “Too many,” he murmurs, even though this was rather on the lower end of the scale, considering some of the invasions Hux has witnessed in his time in the First Order. “Then again, ‘one’ is too many in my books…Honestly, why haven’t they just shot us already?”

There’s a simple answer for that, actually: to look like less of a danger than what they really were—to look as though they were a level-headed group of people that could be negotiated with and _trusted_ to act in everyone’s best interest. After all, the whole reason the Hosnian System was still dragging its feet when it came to the First Order was because there were still members within their senate that had a hard time believing this organization was half the threat Leia Organa made them out to be.

Honestly, Hux hates politics. If the Talos System had a little more outside help in putting together and supporting their intergalactic police force, this whole invasion could’ve been avoided.

“Reasons,” Hux replies, intentionally vague, because he doesn’t want Streif to regret letting him have this conversation. Hux wants to keep in contact with his people as often as he possibly can until they either find a way out of this disaster or meet their maker.

“Are you satisfied now?” Streif asks, impatient.

“Yes,” Hux sighs.

Gre grabs him by the elbow just before he turns away, giving it a comforting squeeze. “Don’t be a stranger.”

“I’ll try.”

Gre glances briefly at Streif and then relinquishes his hold, and Hux, reluctantly, finally exits the holding cell. He follows the Captain back to the communication station, somewhat preoccupied with thoughts of Senator Trass and many of the other _older_ officials captured on Talos Prime. It’s surprising that only one person had suffered a heart attack so far. He’s anticipating a much worse report on the well-being of his people the next time he’s expected to speak with the Talos government.

Streif eventually leads him to a small side office, which confuses him until he spots his uniform on the desk, the blue coat folded neatly on top of everything else. “Make it quick,” the Captain says before ducking back into the corridor. The door slides shut behind him, leaving Hux alone with two stormtroopers.

Mildly annoyed, Hux strips down and changes.

Admittedly, it feels good to be back in his uniform. Thank the stars nobody is forcing him to dress in the First Order’s colours, although someone might get the bright idea to subject him to that humiliation soon enough. Already, he realizes they’ve neglected to return his ring to him, although he supposes that isn’t a necessary component of his work attire.

He’s only just buttoning up his coat when Streif returns, tapping furiously at his datapad, barely looking up as he ushers Hux out of the room and down the hall. Inside is nothing more than a chair situated in front of a floor holoprojector. Hux knows the wall opposite the chair is really a two-way mirror, that anywhere from one to twenty officers could be packed together on the other side, watching him.

There’s already a Lieutenant and two troopers stationed inside the room, standing up against the far wall, no doubt there to intersect if Hux veers into dangerous territory with this conversation.

Sure enough, the first thing Captain Streif says as he hands a datapad to Hux is, “Don’t stray from the script. If they ask you a question that isn’t already on the list, do _not_ answer before Lt. Shvana has given you permission. Is that understood?”

“Yes,” Hux replies, mildly amused by the fact that this will be the first time he’s ever had to follow someone else’s script. Even as a General, he never let his aids write any of his speeches for him. He preferred to speak with his own voice.

Captain Streif watches him as he settles into the chair. Then he turns abruptly around and exits the room, just as the lights dim and the holoprojector flickers to life.

Hux is greeted with an image of President O’manan, her white hair pulled back in its customary tight braid, dark eyes quickly scanning him before she turns to her head to the General on her left, one of the six seated on either side of her, altogether representing the top tier of her war council. _“Councilman Kilian Ko Connix, verified,”_ she says.

 _“Forgive me for asking,”_ the General asks, brow furrowed in confusion, _“but can you think of any particular reason why a Councilman would be chosen over a Senator for a liaison?”_

President O’manan glances back at Hux, quietly taking him in. She had become a close friend of Leia Organa during Hux’s time in government, and therefore knew more about Hux’s past with the First Order than anyone else outside the Resistance. Hux has no doubt she understands that Hux was chosen to be the face of their captured core so that Leia could be kept up to date on his well-being—and inevitable deterioration—over the course of his captivity.

Hux doesn’t miss the touch of sorrow in her eyes as she glances down at the small stack of papers laid out before her on the table, minutely straightening it out as she collects herself. _“Connix has as much experience dealing with foreign entities as many of our Senators, General. Beyond that, does it really matter?”_

Looking over the summarized list of today’s talking points on his datapad, Hux takes a moment to clear his mind, shuffling his anxiety and sorrow to the back burner, and then says, “Shall we begin?”

~***~

The talk goes well, all things considered.

O’manan agrees to the First Order’s initial requests, with the exception of recalling the hidden warships in Doltarian airspace. This was apparently because not all warships had open communication with the capital planet. The military wouldn’t be able to contact them in their entirety for another thirty or so cycles, over which time each ship would normally check in on their current status and location.

Naturally, Streif and whoever was watching the proceedings with him behind the mirror were less than impressed with this information, which Lt. Shvana stated outright during her sole interruption of the meeting. However, as the First Order had already agreed to give the Talos authorities time to peacefully evacuate the Doltarians from their home worlds, thirty cycles was a suitable estimate for how long that particular endeavour would take anyway. The Doltarians would be evacuated and the warships withdrawn in due time. Nothing more could be done.

By Hux’s estimate, they conclude their business in under an hour. O’manan gives him one last pitying look as he bids them farewell before the holoprojection cuts off abruptly. As the overhead lights flicker to life, Streif breezes back into the room to relinquish Hux of his datapad. Then he leads his captive back into the side office to change into his prison uniform.

“The President has three cycles to get into contact with us again,” Streif says once Hux has sorted himself out. Accompanied by another stormtrooper escort, Streif leads him back to the Brig, slower this time, obviously having no other pressing matters to see to before the end of his shift. “Do you have any questions?”

“Beyond liaising with the Talos government on your behalf, are there any other ‘duties’ that are expected of me?”

“So far as my department is concerned, no.” As they come to an overpass above one of the main corridors leading from the main hanger, Streif comes to a halt, hands crossed behind his back, staring over the railing at the squad of stormtroopers marching below them. “However, I’ve been informed that not all of our sessions might occur as scheduled, depending on when the Knights want to deal with you.”

This will be the second time today that someone’s mentioned his upcoming trials with the Knights. He doesn’t know what they intend to do with him—or, rather, he doesn’t know what _Ren_ intends to do with him, seeing as Kylo will be the one pulling their strings. No doubt, it’ll be something truly unpleasant.

Hux follows the Captain’s gaze and sees them suddenly—four figures clad in black walking two abreast, behind one squadron of stormtroopers and ahead of another.

The first two Knights are wearing helmets not too unlike the one Ren tried to hide behind when he was nothing more than Snoke’s plaything. The one on the left looks like a regular man, given his human anatomy; the one on the right is a woman with four arms, the smaller, thinner pair folded tightly against her chest, resting there with a dagger clasped in each clawed hand. The arms that hang by her sides look normal, hands open and relaxed as she paces down the corridor. Directly behind her is another woman, a blue Togruta with two large, white striped montrals and head tails. She is scowling, which seems to suit her, unlike the man walking beside her, who looks nothing more than incredibly tired.

Hux recognizes this last man as Dantalian Tox.

The small troop veers off toward a connecting corridor to the left. But before they do, Dantalian glances upward, as if aware that someone is watching him. His face immediately slackens in surprise when he fixes his gaze on Hux, slowing marginally in his gait—

“Funny seeing you here.”

The sound of Rotan’s voice sets Hux’s teeth on edge. He turns toward the other man on reflex, anger bubbling up inside him as the other Captain saunters toward their small group.

Looking likewise annoyed with Rotan’s presence, Streif sighs. “Carry on, Levit.”

“What—you don’t even have the time of day to say hello to a colleague?” Rotan’s gaze shifts to Hux. “Did you have a nice chat with your people, Councilman? I would love to hear all about it over a drink, if you have the time.”

There’s a thin vein of fear worming its way through Hux’s ire, the dread that Rotan’s found a way to get a hold of his boy again, although he’d be surprised if Ren would let a second act of insubordination go unpunished.

“If you don’t mind,” Streif cuts in, resuming his walk across the overpass, Hux in tow, “I have places to be. If you’d like to have a chat with our guest, you’ll need permission for that, though I somehow doubt you’ve earned it.”

“Oh, I’m not interested in a pulling teeth tonight,” Rotan replies merrily, pulling up beside Hux, matching his gait. “I was just wondering, Councilman, how they did it. I thought persuasion was my forte, but General Tehr says they’ve completely unmade you. You genuinely seem to think you’re one of them. Is that true?”

“Do I need to answer him?” Hux mutters, addressing Streif. While both he and Rotan were Captains, its clear by Streif’s attitude that he’s the more senior of the two and is therefore the higher authority here.

“No,” Streif replies, coming to such a sudden halt that Hux almost runs into his back. He turns sharply on Rotan, looking thoroughly fed up. “Return to your post, Rotan. This is your _only_ warning.”

Rotan’s small smile almost wavers. Hux can see something flashing in his eyes, but the Captain wisely yields with a small bow of his head, slowly turning away and continuing the opposite way down the corridor.

Hux supposes it’s good to see that animosity between fellow officers is still very much a thing in the First Order. That’s not to say he hasn’t seen his fair share of minor tiffs between Resistance members, but they have a sense of comradeship that’s still sorely missing in the FO.

Streif tugs sharply on the hem of his uniform jacket, as if Rotan had managed to literally ruffle him up. Then he continues down the hall in a stormy silence, Hux following close behind him, quiet, surrounded by their entourage of stormtroopers.

Streif doesn’t break his silence until he’s returned Hux to his cell. Hux steps inside and is mildly surprised when he doesn’t hear the door immediately slide shut behind him. Turning, he sees Streif still standing there, studying him.

After a moment, the Captain asks, “What _did_ they do to you?”

 _‘They gave me a greater purpose,’_ Hux thinks, but he doesn’t say that, least of all because it sounds like something someone whose been reconditioned would say. Instead, he replies, “They gave me the opportunity to be whoever I wanted to be.”

“But you already were,” Streif says, frowning in confusion. “Armitage Hux, Grand Marshal of the First Order…I remember getting the memo about your promotion just a few hours before you disappeared. You were a bit of an inspiration, if I’m being honest, the youngest General somehow acquiring more power than anyone thought possible in your short lifetime.”

Considering how often he’s had to field this question, Hux supposes he should have a solid answer by now. However, he feels like the freedom he experienced thanks to Luke’s intervention is still a concept too complicated for the mindless drones of the First Order to understand. Therefore, he wearily tries for something a bit simpler: “Well, what do you a think man does once he reaches the top of the mountain?”

Streif tilts his head curiously to one side. “…I don’t know. What does he do?”

“Finds a taller mountain to climb.”

Blinking at him, still clearly confused, Streif steps back into the corridor, finally allowing the door to slide shut.

Tired, Hux washes his face and pours himself a glass of water, wondering what he’s supposed to do now that he’s all alone again. He can feel his anxiety creeping up on him again, which is honestly the last thing he needs right now.

Although the lights suddenly cutting off on him again is a close second.

~***~

He spends almost the entity of the next two cycles in absolute darkness.

The lights come on briefly for what he approximates to be once every 12 hours, which is when food is delivered to his cell. He eats and cleans himself and then braces for the next wave of darkness, wondering what this treatment is eventually going to do to his circadian rhythm. He supposes its better than the First Order’s preferred method of torture, which is the prolonged exposure to a bright light, because at least he can sleep in the dark. However, this prolonged darkness makes it all too easy to get lost in his thoughts, which mainly revolve around his fear for his son’s wellbeing and a longing for his wife. He thinks of Leia, too, who must be worried sick about him, and Rey, who he knows is trying her hardest to bring her students up to speed on how to deal with Ren’s sorry lot. He knows O’manan’s probably informed them that he’s alive and in custody, which will certainly vex Leia to no end and is presumably exactly the kind of reaction Ren was probably going for when he decided to make Hux his liaison.

His mind also wanders to thoughts of Dante, whom he thought was dead. According to Leia, the man had, in fact, gotten into contact with her once to discuss how he could be of help to the Resistance, although he requested a little time to finish up his current projects in the Doltarian system before joining their ranks. He went missing just a short while before his next scheduled meeting with the General, his small cruiser found burnt to a crisp on one of the Doltarian planets. Hux remembers hearing the news from Leia and feeling as though someone knocked the breath out of him. He had always assumed Stolas finally caught up to the other man.

Obviously, something much worse did.

Near the end of his second day of darkness, Hux begins entertaining the idea of retreating into his sanctuary. He’s never dared venture too long inside his own mind before. In fact, probably the longest stretch he even spent in there was when he was searching for Luke; that endeavour ended with an unfortunate run-in with Ren and the shadow of his father, the oldest of his inner demons. Knowing how unkind his own psyche could be, especially in recent light of how easily it lashed out at other people, dragging them into the murky waters of his mind, he’s honestly a little frightened to delve back into it now. What if his inner demons are stronger now? What if Ren tainted him somehow? He really doesn’t want an answer to either of those questions.

Despite his apprehension, he finds himself spontaneously retreating into his sanctuary midway through one stretch of darkness, lying on his cot, disturbed by the too-loud sound of his own breathing. He’s aware of the effects of prolonged light deprivation, seeing and hearing small things—things that aren’t really there, so he initially thinks some sort of deeper self-defence mechanism has kicked in the moment he allows himself to drift, feeling mildly agitated one second and then blinking the sunlight out of his eyes the next.

He’s suddenly lying on the beach, squinting up at the sky, listening to the ebb and flow of the lake against the white, sandy shore. He wonders what it is about the water that pulls him in so, but he will admit that the sound of it is soothing. He remembers swimming in there quite a bit when he lived on the planet, wading in the shallows to strengthen his arm. It was a lovely way to cool off in the midday sun, secretly wishing he would never have to leave this place.

It feels good lying here on the beach, too, a gentle breeze blowing over his face as he slowly sits up. He’d always wanted to take his friends and family here someday, a quiet paradise untouched by civilization.

Being there has a strange and immediate calming effect on him. He can feel every muscle in his body relaxing, the ache in his neck retreating, leaving him to feel warm and loose as he glances down the shore at the foreign figure standing not too far from him. However, he’s barely alarmed when he sees his uninvited guest, and not for long, especially when he realizes just who it is that’s joined him.

“You still have the most vivid imagination of anyone I’ve ever met,” Dante says, staring out across the lake. The breeze ruffles his dark hair, not much longer than the last time Hux saw him. He’s dressed in the same black trousers, boots, and tunic that the Knights of Ren typically wear under their other gear and cleanshaven, although his pale complexion and the dark circles under his eyes hint that he follows the same strategy that Hux does to get through the day, one of meagre routines, just to keep his body in motion when his mind can’t handle much more than that.

It truly pains Hux to see him like this.

“Did you pull me under?” Hux asks, because Luke and Leia used to do that to him, and he already knows the ease with which Dante can enter another person’s mind. “You’re free to stay as long as you like. You look like you could use a little rest.”

“It takes too much energy to stay here for long,” Dante replies, turning away from the lake. Sure enough, there’s a moment when he almost loses balance as he walks over to join Hux, dropping heavily onto the sand beside him. Up close, he looks like he’s about to pass out. “And I desperately need to sleep. Seir only allows us to rest once every three days. This is the only chance I’ll get to speak with you for the next few cycles.”

Hux frowns. He always knew the Knights were peculiar—Ren, after all, barely seemed to sleep when they were co-commanders, which made keeping track of him a royal pain—but it infuriates Hux to see them inflicting their ill practices on those they’ve dragged into their cult. Sleep deprivation is, in many ways, much worse than being left in the dark.

“How do you continue to function like this?” Hux asks, wondering if this has been the norm since Dante was first taken.

Glancing up at the sky, as if the answer was somehow written there, Dante squints at the sunlight and says, “There’s something in it that keeps a person going, you know?”

“I’m sorry, what is _‘it’_?”

“The Force,” Dante replies, closing his eyes, lying back on the sand. He’s quiet for a stretch, but, just as Hux  is beginning to wonder if he’s fallen asleep, he eventually follows up with, “I can’t feel it the way the others do, but I know it’s there.” He opens his eyes again, tilting his head toward Hux. “I’m sorry, I just needed to know if you were real. They…they like to play their little mind games.”

“How did they find you?” Hux asks softly, not wanting to push the matter if his companion is not up for discussing it.

Fortunately, Dante doesn’t look upset by the question, simply tired. “How else? Stolas ratted us out to the First Order. Then the Knights of Ren bribed a Doltarian tribe I don’t normally deal with to request my help just to get me out in the middle of nowhere. When I landed at the meeting point, Seir and Faternma apprehended me.”

Hux can only imagine how that encounter played out. It was probably terrifying. And painful.

“I’m sorry,” Dante adds suddenly, reaching over to grab Hux’s forearm gently. He takes a slow, deep breath, face pinched with agony, as if he’s trying not to cry. “I’m _so_ sorry…If I hadn’t enlisted your help with Stolas, they wouldn’t have figured out what System you were hiding in—that’s one of the first things he gloated over, you know, the fact that he’d narrowed down your whereabouts to a single System. He didn’t even bother questioning me about you, he was so certain he would find you in due time.”

“Kylo Ren?” Hux asks, though he already knows. “I don’t blame you. If he hadn’t tracked me down, he would’ve found some way to smoke me out of hiding.”

Releasing Hux’s arm, Dante relaxes minutely. “He’s been waiting a long time for this invasion. You could practically taste his excitement in the air in the days leading up to it.”

Hux wonders what was running through Ren’s mind during the final stretch of his wait. Was he thinking about how wonderful it would be to cast Hux into the darkness and watch him slowly descend into madness? Or does he have something worse in store? Perhaps this is merely the prelude to something tremendously horrid.

Trying to keep his fears at bay, Hux presses on with the conversation. “I thought you could contact anyone across the universe so long as you’ve already been inside their mind, so I’m assuming you’ve already tried to call for help?”

“Believe me,” Dante laughs humorlessly, “the first thing I did when they dragged me aboard was try to reach out for someone. In a blind panic, I chose one of my sisters, but Seir shut that connection down pretty quickly. I haven’t dared to try that again since.”

“He could tell you were trying to contact someone?” Hux asks, intrigued. He knew Leia could sense when someone was using the Force, but not always. It apparently wasn’t the easiest thing to detect unless you were actively looking for it.

“I didn’t realize this before, but reaching out to someone so far away requires a much greater pull on the Force than most other techniques, to the point where it’s hard to miss when someone is doing it.”

“Why didn’t you try to reach out Leia Organa instead? I’m sure it would’ve helped her to find you, however brief the connection.”

“I’ve never been inside her head,” Dante admits. “We only ever spoke through holoprojections. I didn’t even get the chance to meet your other friend, Rey, before I was taken.” He pauses for a moment, squinting in concentration. Then he props himself up on his elbows, glancing around at the lake and the forest. “Organa mentioned coming to see you here often when you were working as an undercover Resistance agent. Has she tried to reach out to you yet?”

Sadly, Hux shakes his head. “Ren destroyed our connection a long time ago, back when he found out what I was doing. We haven’t made any effort to rebuild it since, though if she could still somehow sense me, I’m sure she would’ve tried to contact me by now.”

“Just because he blocked the connection doesn’t necessarily mean he succeeded in destroying it. It might still be there. You could try reaching out to her instead.”

“But I have no experience initiating a connection with her.”

Dante hums thoughtfully. Then he gingerly lowers himself back onto the sand, closing his eyes once more. “I’m sorry…I need to get going. I don’t have the strength to stay for much longer.”

“Go,” Hux replies, softly, shifting his gaze toward the lake. “We’ll talk again later, if you can manage that.”

“I want to,” he murmurs. “Believe me. It’s…lonely here. Terribly so.”

Honestly, Hux wishes he knew what Dante’s been through. So far Seeing his friend so strung out and weak, the complete opposite of his energetic and bubbly self, crushes him. He’d forgotten how cold the void of space was, even on a ship manned by thousands of people.

“I believe you,” he sighs.

After a stretch of silence, he glances down to the indentation in the sand where Dante was lying. He then blinks and is greeted with darkness again, willingly relinquishing his hold on his sanctuary, scared of dwelling there too long.

Returning to the darkness, he now feels the gentle pull of sleep.

Calmly, he surrenders to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: There's more Ren in the next chapter, I promise. ;)


	4. Assimilation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Posted this in a rush, so I apologize for any errors. I will come back later to fix things up.
> 
> EDIT: I'm moving tomorrow and won't have internet until the second week of June (besides on my phone). As such, the next chapter might come a little later than expected, unless I have a chance in the evening to hit up a coffee shop and upload it once I've completed it. I'm sorry for the delay.

_“You learned to run from what you feel, and that's why you have nightmares. To deny is to invite madness. To accept is to control.”_

― Megan Chance

~*8*8*8*~

Having lived a life constrained by rules and regulations, where there were protocols and contingencies for practically everything, Hux had forgotten how difficult it could be to encounter a mistake with no obvious solution until he was living among the Resistance.

Today’s case in point: the engine of an old X-wing Hux offered to fix wasn’t quite behaving itself despite his best efforts to remedy the situation. He’d volunteered his services at their small, covert base on Talos Prime because he was still waiting to hear back from Organa’s contacts in the government about his application as a Councilman and because he missed working with his hands. He was an engineer before he was an officer, so it was a surprise that what should’ve taken him an hour or two was gradually eating up the better part of his day, although he could at least blame the delay on the ship’s outdated design. It was some second-hand vehicle made from out-of-production parts, much like every other piece of equipment in the Resistance’s arsenal, no doubt sold quick and cheap by some black-market dealer simply to get it off their hands.

“I think it was in better shape before you came along,” Dameron muttered from where he was sitting in the cockpit, leaning over the lip of the ship as he watched Hux rummage through the toolkit on the ground beside him. The sun was low on the horizon. In under roughly an hour, they wouldn’t have any natural light left to work with for the day.

“It was already in poor condition when you bought it,” Hux replied, only mildly insulted. He knew what he was doing. The X-wing didn’t have as sleek or efficient a design as that of a TIE-fighter, but he was finally beginning to recognize the synonymous parts used in the construction of this ship. It was _fixable_ , technically, but not with the supplies on hand. “And it looks as though it’s going to stay that way for a little while longer, I’m afraid…”

With a huff of irritation, Dameron leaned back into the cockpit, continuing his own work on the busted control panel. Hux couldn’t blame him for his frustration. They would be one pilot short until this X-wing was up and running again, not that they had any large-scale battle plans in the near future.

Grabbing a cloth out of the toolkit, Hux straightened up and began wiping the oil off his hands. His arms were sore from holding them above his head as he worked, and he somehow nicked the inside of his left index finger, but he felt good otherwise. He imagined it must have been all the fresh air and direct sunlight he’d been getting lately. He hadn’t been planet-side for this long in practically forever.

As he wiped his hands, he sensed movement in the corner of his eye. He turned his head to find the newly minted Captain Kaydel Ko Connix suddenly standing there beside him, hands on her hips, staring up at the battered X-wing. Her gaze seemed to be fixated on a long black gouge, the root of Hux’s problem with the engine.

After a short beat of silence, Kaydel shifted her attention to Hux and said, “I’m pregnant.”

Hux fiddled with the cloth a second longer before stilling altogether, trying to process this new information. His brain immediately supplied two facts: first, that they’d been exclusive ever since they escaped Crait, and, second, that they were always careful in their encounters…except, perhaps, the few times that Hux overstepped the limit of his pitifully low alcohol tolerance, waking with only the vaguest memory of the night before with an equally hungover Kaydel—

In conclusion, he knew _exactly_ who was responsible for landing her in this disaster.

So did she, obviously.

“I’m keeping it,” Kaydel added after she’d given him enough time to get over the shock of her announcement, “with or without your help. But considering everything you’ve told me about yourself, I get the feeling you want to be involved.”

“I do,” he said, with an ease that should have been alarming. Instead, he felt nothing but a quiet sense of awe.

“Alright,” she replied, slowly shifting her weight from one foot to the other. For the first time since beginning this difficult conversation, she looked uncomfortable, as if she’d come out here fully expecting at least a token of a fight from him. “I’ll keep you posted…”

The awkwardness of this exchange was not lost on him, although that didn’t prevent him from replying with, “That would be appreciated,” as if he were exchanging a report with a fellow officer and not discussing the logistics of having a child with his future co-parent.

“Good.” She nodded once, then reached up to tuck a stray lock of golden hair behind her ear as she smoothly turned about-face and headed back to the hanger bay.

Hux watched her go for a long while, mentally kicking himself for not saying more—though what ‘ _more_ ’ would’ve been is beyond him. For someone well into their thirties, he didn’t have much experience when it came to romantic relationships. In fact, the one time he’d _almost_ forged a close connection to someone, they turned out to be a sociopathic megalomaniac with overtly parricidal tendencies…

There was the sound of movement above, reminding Hux that he had company. Sure enough, Poe Dameron heard everything, as evidenced by the way he peeked his head back over the lip of the cockpit and, smiling, said, “I guess Finn wasn’t joking when he said the First Order doesn’t offer sex ed in their training curriculum.”

Hux scowled at him in return, because he wasn’t quite _that_ stupid. Granted, the FO really didn’t offer anything in the way of sexual education, but anyone who couldn’t figure out how to use their reproductive organs properly weren’t usually chosen to engage in sexual relations with their comrades. And besides, most officers were already so pumped up with hormonal blockers, they might as well be chemically sterile. The stats for accidental pregnancies on any given Star Destroyer were abnormally low.

As always, scowling at Dameron never accomplished much beyond giving the other man a good laugh; his friend predictably snorted at him before saying, “Now would normally be as good as any time for a shovel talk, I think, but Kay’s more than capable of introducing you to a world of pain if you hurt her.”

“True,” Hux sighed, although he had absolutely no intention of doing her wrong. She was his favorite person—and he didn’t mean that all in a childish way. He was happy when she was happy and down when she was down. She was clever and strong and had a sense of humor that was both dry and epigrammatic, a good foil to his own dark wit. In fact, he even thought Sloane would’ve appreciated her spunk. There was a reason Kaydel was loved by her people, and Hux had every intention of cultivating their relationship to its fullest potential, regardless of how badly he usually floundered in the social arena.

“In all seriousness though,” Dameron continued, “congratulations. You’re weird but nice. I think you could be a good father.”

“Thank you,” he said, and he meant it. There was a part of him that was quite excited, even if he didn’t know what he was supposed to do or say about this situation just yet. He was going to be a father.

He was going to be a father.

~***~

After another long stretch of solitude in the darkness, his distress over the well-being of his son reaches a fever pitch. He tries to pace to distract himself, dragging his fingertips along the wall across the room from his cot to keep him on a set course, counting out his steps carefully in each direction so that he doesn’t collide with either the adjacent wall or the sink. He’s restless and beginning to hallucinate, his brain amplifying its own background neural noise in the hopes of identify missing visual cues. He thinks he sees Kirian a few times, sitting on the floor, playing with his toys as he babbles merrily to himself; Hux also imagines a thick sheet of rain falling all around him and can almost feel its spray against his hands and face. Of course, he _knows_ neither is real, but it isn’t easy remembering that when he’s faced with such fantastic sights, and it doesn’t help that the lights no longer turn on whenever something is slipped through the door slot. Without light, his circadian rhythm is shot. He can’t even tell if his food is being supplied to him at regular intervals anymore.

He estimates that he’s been in here for five cycles when the ceiling light finally comes back on. It gives off only a dim glow, but it still burns after all this time. It takes him a while to rub the dancing black dots and moisture from his eyes before he’s able to make out his Talos uniform sitting on the door tray, evidence that this punishment was only brought to an end by their apparent need of him.

Weakly, he takes the tray from the door and begins his daily routine once again, this time shaving off a significant shadow of red hair as he goes about making himself somewhat presentable. His heart isn’t racing, but its thudding quite loudly against his ribcage, as if laboring against some unseen assailant. Maybe he’s getting sick. Prolonged stress will do that to that to a person.

Thankfully, they provided him painkillers with his gruel, something to bat down the mounting pressure behind his eyes from the sudden exposure to light. He eats and then returns his tray to the door, which is when the whole thing slides open to reveal Captain Streif.

Instead of ushering Hux out into the hall, Streif waltzes right on in, eyes glued to his datapad. “You can thank the President for this delay,” he sighs, as if _he_ was the one who was inconvenienced by this whole matter. “She was supposed to reach out to us days ago. Now she’s demanding a quick message from you to ensure you’re still alive and well.”

Hux’s mind is too muddled to search for clues in anything Streif just said. O’manan isn’t the sort of person who would ignore important details or deadlines, so at least he knows there’s probably a good reason for the delay.   

“I want to see my son,” is Hux’s non-sequitur response.

Streif glances up at him briefly. “Later, perhaps.” He finishes typing out whatever he needs onto the datapad and then hands it to Hux. There’s a string of letters and numbers written at the top of the screen, right below the blinking red dot of the datapad’s camera. “Read the code supplied to us by your people aloud after the light turns blue. Don’t say or do anything else while we’re recording.”

Hux doesn’t care that the First Order apparently wants to punish his people by limiting the information they obtain with this message, but the light changes before he has a chance to say anything else. Sighing, he says, “A 1 3 2 2 2 4 V 7 8—”

“Stop—” Streif snatches the datapad back from him, scowling at the code as he halts the recording. “That isn’t what’s written here. I told you not to say anything else.”

“And I told you that I want to see my son,” Hux replies irritably. “Either you let me see him or you can find someone else to liaison for you with the Talos System.”

Posture stiffening, Streif openly glares at him for moment. Naturally, they both know Hux is the only one they can use, because dangling anyone else in captivity before the screen won’t have the same effect on Leia Organa or his other fellow Resistance members.

Ren wants this whole affair to be as personal as possible, after all.

Taking a deep breath through his nose, Streif fiddles with his datapad. One of the stormtroopers out in the hall shifts their weight from one foot to the other in obvious boredom until Streif hands the datapad back to him. The screen is now displaying the live feed from a room housing five small children. Kirian is in there, sitting on a floor mat beside an older girl about five or six years old. The girl is reading aloud from a datapad while Kirian listens intently.

He always did love story time.

It’s such an incredible relief to see his little boy still alive and well. Of course, he knew he could trust Wane to perform her duty admirably. She’d always been open about the fact that she didn’t believe the children of her enemies had to be her enemies as well.

Even so, with people like Rotan roaming the ship, undermining the authority of his fellow officers, Hux can’t help but worry.

With a bit of the weightiness in his chest now gone, Hux allows Streif to take the datapad from him without complaint, and when Streif sets up the recording again, Hux reads off the code without a hitch.

“Perfect,” Streif murmurs as he saves the file. “That’s it for me. Now step outside. The Supreme Leader wishes to speak with you.”

Hux’s heart skips a beat, but certainly not in the good way. He hates the fact that Ren can strike such a sense of fear in him, but he keeps his face neutral as he steps out into the hall, a small squadron of stormtroopers surrounding him, blasters at the ready.

They escort him alone through the corridors of the ship, marching in tandem, a well-oiled machine. Having been gone for so long, he only realizes now how creepy it actually is, to see people reduced to the status of possession, trapped in a rhythm that isn’t their own, a stark contrast to how the Resistance operates, which has always been something of a celebration of diversity.

Far too soon, they make it to Ren’s audience room, the outer corridor flanked by four members of his Praetorian Guard. Hux’s mind goes completely blank as he’s escorted up to the door, which slides open to reveal the familiar, dimly lit room, the silhouette of Ren’s empty throne accentuated by the faintly backlit walls. It is with no small amount of trepidation that Hux steps forward, assuming he’s alone until he catches movement in the corner of his right eye. There he finds Ren standing by a large viewport, the transparisteel shifting from transparent to opaque as Ren turns to look at him, blocking out the stars behind him.

The door behind Hux slides shut with a whisper. He takes a few steps forward, until he’s about midway across the room to the throne, and then stops, uncertain of what he’s expected to do now.

Ren stares at him in silence for a short while before he approaches. “I find it amusing that you could so easily trade one uniform for another,” he says, sizing up Hux’s coat. It looks so out of place aboard a Star Destroyer, a rich blue against all the black and white uniforms and gleaming chromatic fixtures. “Then again, I think you prefer having a little structure in your life. It makes me wonder how poorly you must have adjusted to living on a planet after dwelling so long in the belly of a duristeel beast.”

To be honest, his newfound freedom was frightening at first. While he still struggled in many ways to ‘loosen up’, as Dameron so often jested, he quite enjoyed the unpredictability that came with living according to a flexible schedule most days—and sometimes with no schedule at all.

“I survived,” is all that Hux says.

“That you did.” Closer now, standing at a causal distance, Ren stares at him pointedly for a long moment, his face expressionless, eerily calm. “You’re nothing if not resilient, Armitage.”

Hux doesn’t know what to say to that.

Ren turns away, retreating to his throne. He settles into it quite comfortably, leaning into the left armrest with his elbow. “Why are you avoiding it?” he asks, apropos of nothing.

Confused, Hux wracks his brain for whatever he can remember of their last conversation. He doesn’t recall much beyond Ren’s petty rant about Kaydel before he scoured Hux’s mind for any information concerning Leia Organa’s whereabouts. “Avoiding what?” he asks, hoping Ren didn’t drag him here today just to play cryptic games.

“Your so-called ‘ _sanctuary’_ ,” Ren elaborates. “When I was in your mind last, I could tell you’d been trying to separate yourself from the Force. Why is that?”

That’s a complicated answer, one that basically boils down to his fear of the great unknown, that sullen creature that lurks on the cusp of his consciousness and only comes out when he’s at his worst.

But Hux doesn’t say that. Instead, he sighs, “I don’t have much of a use for it, I suppose.”

“You used it religiously when you were acting as my mother’s agent,” Ren points out. “You made use of it again when you tried to protect your son from interrogation. So far as I can see, it’s been a great asset to you.”

“In an emergency, yes,” he reluctantly concedes, unconsciously rubbing the inside of his ring finger with his thumb. He doesn’t like the direction this conversation is going. Not that any topic of conversation is truly safe with Ren, but the Force and the way it seemingly ‘elevates’ a person above the status of a simple human being is truly Ren’s greatest obsession, the core of his arrogance and pride. It’s better not to rile the man up about something that he’s so passionate about.

“It’s a wonder,” Ren replies, head cocked gently to one side, “that there are those of you with such an aversion to the Force."

“I think…” Hux says, voice soft and tentative, yet unbelievably loud in this large and hollow space. He can hear the soft patter of his heart and wonders if Ren is listening to it too from halfway across the room. “…that a power such as the Force has the potential to consume a person. It should be respected; used in moderation.”

“Has it consumed you?” There’s a shadow of a smile on Ren’s lips, so amused with his discomfort. “I don’t think so. You’ve been using it since you were how old—twenty-four? That’s well over a decade. How less of yourself are you now since you first began?”

“Between you and I,” Hux replies, finding just a hint of his usual steel again, “I’m about half a personality short.”

Ren snorts faintly at Hux’s reference to his other self, the shadow he cast off nearly three years ago. He wonders if Ren ever misses the man.

With a small shake of his head, Ren says, “I think we could talk ourselves in circles now if we allowed ourselves, so I’ll be blunt—what do you know about the Force?”

What a loaded question.

The Force was…complicated. Luke tried to explain a little bit of it to him. Leia too. Stars, even Ren once lectured him about the differences between the Light and the Dark, spinning his tale of ‘ _participants’_ and ‘ _passions’_ , but there probably weren’t enough hours in the year to discuss every aspect of the Force—and that was only considering what was _known_. After all, Luke, who probably understood it better than anyone, was still on a quest for more knowledge when Hux met him, searching for old tomes and artifacts or any other sliver of a clue as to why this strange power behaved the way it did.

Reflecting on his own knowledge of the Force and feeling somewhat overwhelmed, Hux decides to start small and work his way up from there: “It’s…everywhere, I believe. In every living thing.”

“That it is,” Ren replies, obviously pleased with his answer. “Everywhere. In every living thing. Yet so few can sense it. To be so blind to something that’s inside you seems almost ridiculous, until you realize most people similarly disregard the air they breathe. But there’s a reason for that—there’s a mechanism in the brain that focuses our attention elsewhere, on more important things, until we need to remember to control it.”

The image of his lake briefly flashes across Hux’s mind, of floating beneath the surface, watching the sun's rays dancing through the water. Consciously, now, Ren’s inadvertently turned his attention to his lungs, slowly expanding before his diaphragm contracts again, tucked around his beating heart, which itself still sounds too loud in his ears.

“I imagine if you had two populations,” Ren continues, philosophizing, “one group of individuals that could regulate their breathing and another that couldn’t, such a simple difference would speak volumes toward their independent levels of survivorship, wouldn’t you agree?”

“What I think you’re trying to tell me,” Hux replies, hoping to cut to the chase here, “is that you believes there’s a similar mechanism that prevents us from interfering with another vital force, one that’s _broken_ in Force users?”

“ ‘ _Evolved’_ ,” Ren corrects him, “although I suppose you could consider it ' _broken'_   in those who’ve become conscious of the Force through means other than birth, such as yourself.”

Hux knows he’s had a similar conversation before, both with Holdo, who first suggested that partial users of the Force could obtain their abilities through outside influence, and Dantalian, who was another living example of such a phenomena, his brief encounter with a complete stranger as a child spreading his consciousness to other people through the Force.

This, however, is old news.

“What do you intend to do with this information?” Hux asks, admittedly wary of Ren’s answer—wary of what he might’ve already done with it. “Are you trying to make a Force user from scratch?”

Ren laughs a little at this. “No…no. Beyond the fact that we both know I don’t have the patience to attempt such a thing, I wouldn’t even know where to begin. Instead, I’ve focused my attention elsewhere, on those who’ve already demonstrated a nascent connection with the Force, those with remarkable abilities who still seem somewhat… _limited_ in what they allow themselves to do. Take, for example, your friend,” He pauses a moment here, watching Hux intently, almost excited, “Dantalian Tox.”

Even already knowing that Dante is in custody, Hux’s stomach lurches at his name. He drops his gaze, trying not to dwell on how sad and tired his old friend was during their last encounter, lying on the sand, exhausted to the point where even his mental projection couldn’t last long in Hux’s hidden sanctuary. A good man like that didn’t belong in this nightmare.

It just wasn’t fair.

Smug, Ren continues, “Stolas Agyp and his syndicate informed us of your little misadventure. His intel helped us narrow down which System you were hiding in. He also led us to Tox, who is somehow able to enter the mind of another individual from seemingly anywhere in the universe yet initially showed none of the classical abilities of a Force user, such as telekinesis or influencing the will of others.”

“Initially?” Hux breathes, lifting his gaze. He wonders what sort of ordeal Dantalian’s been put through in order to get Ren’s desired results.

“He and a few others are beginning to show signs of expanding their powers. Seeing as they can accomplish that, there should be no reason why our other brethren can’t learn their unique abilities in return.” Ren stares at him for a long, unnerving moment. “I would like to add yours to the list,” He says. Then he shifts his gaze past Hux, seemingly focusing on the door.

Hux turns.

And his whole world turns too.

There’s a small table situated before him, three chairs lining one side. He’s facing a wall of glass, which separates him from a much longer and formal conference table. Beyond that is a sea of stars, gleaming brilliantly behind a transparisteel viewport that stretches the length of the room.

Hux recognizes this as the same conference room where he hosted Dante’s interrogation of Stolas Agyp.

“And here I thought you would never change the venue,” Ren remarks, suddenly standing to his left, just within his periphery.

On reflex, Hux takes a small sidestep away from Ren. “I…only used this location once, actually.”

Why his brain chose it now is beyond him. Likewise, he had no idea Ren could pull him under so seamlessly; he felt no indication of the shift between realities as it was happening.

Ren seems to have sensed his confusion because he then says, “We’ve determined that the mechanism by which the brain keeps the conscious separate from the Force weakens whenever it’s subjected to the same conditions that would normally result in hallucinations.”

“…Is that why you’ve been keeping me in the dark?” Hux asks, shoulders tensing, thinking of the ordeal they’ve put him through so far. Here he thought the FO was cutting the lights just to punish him.

“Sensory and sleep deprivation have proven to be quite effective,” Ren elaborates. “Essentially, now the smallest detail from your daily life could influence and improve the way in which you use the Force. For example, why is this particular room important to you?”

Casting a glance to the far left-hand side of the conference table, Hux says, “This is where I first met Mr. Agyp. With him on my mind, I assume that’s why I brought us here.”

Ren hums softly, walking around the small table in the concealed room to touch the one-way mirror. Then he glances back over his shoulder at Hux. “Break it.”

Blinking in confusion, Hux says, “What, the glass?”

“Yes.”

He opens his mouth to ask why but then slowly closes it again. It’s not a difficult request, at least not in here, and Ren has maintained his composure thus far, so Hux doesn’t want to risk stirring up his ire by appearing unyielding or antagonistic. For now, he can do what is told of him, whatever Ren’s reasons might be.

Hux shifts his gaze from Ren to the glass.

It shatters immediately, marred by an intricate spider-web fracture that encompasses the whole wall. Hux feels a soft, tingling sensation at the nape of his neck and a brief blossom of warmth in his chest as he exerts his will on it, which lingers briefly after he’s done. It feels…unusual.

“Is that enough?” he asks.

Ren doesn’t immediately answer, just standing there, hand flat against the glass, staring down at the floor as if lost in thought. Eventually though, he says, “This will take quite some time. Months, likely, but it’s possible…”

Shifting from one foot to the other, Hux tries not to express how relieved he is that Ren can’t immediately make use of his talent. Of course, he’s not sure what Ren would use it for beyond intergalactic conversations with people he already knows through the Force, but he’s sure Ren could conceive of at least a thousand different ways to abuse this power.

Finally, Ren lifts his hand from the glass, walking past the table again—past Hux, too.

Hux turns.

They’ve returned to the audience room. Curiously, Ren is still seated upon his throne, as if he hadn’t moved at all.

Once again, Hux is unsettled by the ease with which Ren was able to initiate the shift.

“Do you ever wonder what it would feel like,” Ren asks, “to use your powers out here the same way you use them in there?”

…Perhaps, once or twice, he’d entertained the idea, but he never had any real interest in learning how to use the Force. ‘Using it’ wasn’t a necessity of life. In fact, it too easily offered the opportunity of abuse, as evidenced by the fact that a number of Luke’s students cut down their peers after letting it get to their heads. Likewise, he’d only really used it for his own means twice before, and both times he nearly killed someone.

In short, it was more trouble than it was worth and not at all something Hux needed for his happiness or vitality.

“I’m not interested,” he says.

Ren smiles again, just a small curl of the lips, like he’s dealing with someone young and naïve. “Not even in the slightest?” Ren asks, voice deceptively soft.

A subtle weight settles in the pit of Hux’s stomach. He’s never fashioned himself a Force user, despite his curious connection to it, nor does he have any desire to ever be one.

“That’s correct,” he replies, angry with how quiet his voice is.

“You’re afraid of it, aren’t you?” The question sounds innocent, but Hux knows it’s anything but. “You want to pretend that connection isn’t there, but to deny such an essential part of yourself is madness. You cannot hope to control what you refuse to recognize even exists.”

That sage bit of advice suddenly stirs up Hux’s memories of Brendol, of sitting in the forest and being cajoled by the legendary Skywalker into facing his inner demons. On reflex, he therefore stupidly responds with, “That sounds like something Luke would say.”

There’s a sudden, chilling silence in response to his observation. Ren isn’t smiling anymore. In fact, Hux has a hard time meeting his dark gaze, waiting for the moment Ren lashes out at him, either physically or with the Force.

It therefore comes as something of a surprise when Ren says, “Then you agree it would be wise to explore your abilities?”

Well…Ren sure turned _that_ one on him. Tit for tat, he supposes; either one of them could use Luke’s logic to argue in their favor.

Hux stiffens with dread. He knows that the _real_ madness lies in investigating a part of himself that is best left buried in his subconscious mind. He’s seen how ugly it is, that thread of power pulsing below the surface. It reminds him too much of how his other self used to operate, unburdened by morals, always unraveling toward deeper and darker depths. Hux promised himself he would never allow himself to fall prey to such a power.

Because, inevitably, all power corrupts.

Trying to swallow the lump in his throat, Hux says, “I would prefer not.”

“Your preference has been noted,” Ren replies. Casually, he crosses one leg over the other, seemingly unconcerned with Hux’s apprehension. “But given your naiveté in this area, it doesn’t hold much weight in my decision—which is, for your benefit, a guided analysis of this peculiar gift my uncle bestowed upon you.”

Hux tries to take a slow, even breath through his nose. Dante comes to mind again, so weak and weary, whittled away by Ren and his Knights.

Eyes flickering past Hux, Ren focuses his attention on the door a second before Hux hears it slide open. “You’re early,” the Supreme Leader remarks.

Glancing over his shoulder, Hux feels the sting of irritation at the sight of Captain Rotan strolling into the room, smiling faintly, gaze momentarily lingering on Hux. “My apologies, Supreme Leader. Should I come back later?”

“No. The Councilman was just leaving.”

On cue, four stormtroopers step into the room, though they linger by the door. Hux casts one last look at Ren, who simply says, “We’ll commence with our work in the following cycles. In the meantime, I suggest you meditate.”

Hux doesn’t know the first thing about meditation, really, and he’s not about to learn now. Granted, he’ll be in the perfect state of mind for such as thing if his sensory deprivation treatment continues, but he has no intention of seeking out any kind of internal quietude. If Ren wants to play with his thoughts and feelings, let him muck through the mess at his own expense.

Irate, Hux turns toward the door—but then Rotan has the audacity to _tsk_ at him, which stops Hux dead in his tracks.

“Where are your manners?” the Captain asks, so insufferably smug. “You haven’t been formally dismissed.”

More annoyed than he probably has any right to be, given his present company, Hux reaches up to tug lightly at the collar of his blue coat, drawing attention the distinct lack of any rank; he’s technically a civilian, after all. “Do you see any stars or pips?”

Rotan opens his mouth, no doubt some witty or biting remark perched on the tip of his tongue, except Ren chooses then to intervene: “I’ll remind you once again, Captain, that he is mine alone to deal with.”

Hux doesn’t know if there’s a promise of punishment in that statement because Ren looks so utterly composed, as if he’s hardly concerned about the matter. Rotan, however, does get a point in his favor when Ren then glances at Hux and says, “You are dismissed.”

Not knowing what to say to that, Hux makes his way to the door, immediately flanked by the four stormtroopers when he steps out into the hall, trying not to think about how satisfied Rotan must feel after getting a dig in at him. Unfortunately, his mind flitters with an embarrassing kind of uneasiness when he focuses instead on the darkness and solitude waiting for him in his cell. Maybe if he knew, precisely, how long he would remain in isolation, the whole thing would be a little more bearable, but who knows when Streif or Ren will need to make use of him again? It could be anytime within a cycle or a week or a _year_ or—

That dismal train of thought is brought to an abrupt halt when he spots someone loitering in the corridor up ahead. It’s Staff Sergeant Wane, hands folded behind her back, her eyes pinned on Hux as they approach. The sight of her makes him feel queasy, once more sick with worry over the wellbeing of his son.

Fortunately, she’s quick to put his mind at ease as she waves his guards aside and says, “I was informed of your earlier inquiry. Follow me.”

The stormtroopers pause in obvious confusion before leading him down an adjoining corridor, moving steadily toward Wane’s domain. Eventually, they reach her department, entering a large common area obviously geared toward caring for children surrounded by smaller, individual rooms. She then leads him to one of these doors but doesn’t open it immediately.

“He’s in good spirits, all things considered,” she says. “According to our analyses, he’s reached all the necessary developmental milestones for his age, although his impulse control is perhaps better than most. He often asks for you but doesn’t seem too concerned when we tell him he’ll have to wait a while before you can visit.”

Kirian was used to having Kaydel duck in and out of their lives for her work, so that doesn’t come as much of a surprise to him. Even so, Hux is proud of his boy for somehow keeping his head together. Maybe it helps that he’s surrounded by other children; the constant companionship keeps him preoccupied.

“How long do I have?” Hux asks, hoping it isn’t just five minutes. He doesn’t know how well either one of them will fare if they’re torn apart from each other again in so little time.

There’s an agonizing stretch of silence from Wane as she deliberates. Then she finally says, “He’s supposed to be winding down for bed. Get him to sleep for us. Quickly, mind you.”

Hux doesn’t know how to express his gratitude to her, although she clearly doesn’t care to hear it anyway, pressing her hand against the door sensor before waving him in.

Stepping inside the small room, heart in his throat, Hux stares down into the small, smiling face of his little boy.

The door slides shut behind him just as Kirian drops the small black block in his tiny hands and clambers to his feet. “Daddy, _yes_!” he squeals, extending his arms gleefully toward his father.

Hux sweeps the child up into his arms, kissing the side of his golden head, holding Kirian hard against his chest. He feels something break inside himself, throat uncomfortably tight, eyes burning with tears. He’s not often a crier, but he can’t control himself now. He doesn’t know how he’s managed to survive this long without seeing his boy, and he doesn’t know how he’s going to last before he sees him again—assuming, of course, that he will see him again.

However, Hux knows he can’t allow himself to worry about that now, not when he has this moment, knowing that Kirian is relatively happy and healthy and in good hands. Even so, it’s still quite the internal battle to convince himself to relinquish his hold, gently setting Kirian back down on the ground, kneeling before the boy.

“Are you crying?” Kirian asks, fiddling with one of the brass buttons on Hux’s coat.

Mildly ashamed of his behaviour, Hux quickly wipes away his tears and then reaches out to give Kirian’s tiny shoulders a comforting squeeze. “I’m just happy to see you is all. They tell me you’ve been on your best behaviour. Good boy, Kirian.”

The praise brings an easy smile to Kirian’s face. The boy then leans forward to kiss Hux on the left cheek, right below his eye, a little uncoordinated, as always.

It feels like the best thing in the universe after everything he’s been through.

He pulls Kirian in for another embrace, this one a little less desperate, eyeing the small room behind the boy. There’s a trunk in the far corner, in front of which is a clumsy mound of black and white blocks. Opposite that is a mattress lying flat on the floor and a small stand, upon which is a set dim lamp and a glass of water. He and Kaydel still have Kirian in a crib back home, because the boy tends to roll around an awful lot in his sleep, but with the mattress being on the floor, Hux imagines his son will be alright if he accidentally tumbles off it.

“Were you playing?” Hux asks, eyeing the blocks. “I believe it’s bedtime. We should put your things away, don’t you think?”

“I can do it!” Kirian proudly exclaims, extracting himself from his father’s embrace and scrambling to collect his blocks off the floor, all the while singing “I can do it, I can do it…” under his breath.

Hux sits there on the floor, watching him work, until Kirian drops the last block in the trunk and turns around to smugly say, “I did it.”

“That you did,” Hux agrees, staring down at Kirian’s feet. “Now, is there anything else you need to remember before bed?”

Kirian frowns at him in confusion before following Hux’s line of regard. “My shoes,” he sighs wearily, as if they’ve somehow affronted him. Then he plops right down there on the floor and tugs them off, handing them over to Hux, who lines them up against the wall, as per their usual routine.

“Very good,” Hux replies, scooping the boy off the floor and depositing him on his bed. After he’s tucked Kirian under the covers, Hux lies down on the small mattress beside him, curling an arm around the boy when Kirian scoots closer to him.

“Good night, daddy” Kirian says, tired but content, blinking blearily as he contemplates surrendering to his exhaustion.

“I love you,” Hux breaths, pressing a kiss against his brow, wondering if Kirian will be dismayed to find him missing when he wakes or if he’ll somehow weather through this second separation just as well as the first.

He tries not to let that thought spoil what time he has left with the boy. He watches Kirian’s eyes droop shut and his body slacken in relaxation, slipping into an easy slumber. The boy looks very much like his mother, her golden hair, her perfect nose…Hux misses her tremendously too.

Inevitably, this peaceful moment is not without end. Eventually, the door slides open and Hux catches sight of Wane’s silhouette in the corner of his eye. He then carefully extracts himself from the bed, careful not to rouse his son as he leaves the room.

Once outside, he stares back at Kirian until the door obscures his view.

He feels wounded.

“Thank you,” he says, still grateful to have been given the opportunity to see his child again.

Wane gives him a curious look, silently evaluating him. After a beat, she says, “No offence, but I never pictured you as a father. You were always married to your job. It seemed as though you would never have the time for anything else.”

“Well,” Hux says, not sure what she wants to hear, “as we both know, I quit my old job. That freed up my time considerably.”

Instead of the disapproval or confusion he thought this remark would earn him, his answer brings a small smile to Wane’s lips.

She says nothing more at that point, handing Hux back over to his guards, who lead him silently to his cell. He finds his prison scrubs on the bed and obediently changes into them before folding his uniform and feeding it back through the door slot. The lights in his cell go out shortly after, just as he’s poured himself a glass of water from the en suite and taken a long drink.

Though the darkness certainly bothers him, he’s not as upset with it now as he thought he would be. Instead, he finds it simple enough to find his cot, lie down, and close his eyes, weary in a way that has him surrendering quickly to the pull of oblivion behind his eyes.

And when he finally falls asleep, he dreams blessedly of home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Apparently, Jason Fry, who writes many of the Star Wars novelizations, confirmed that Hux helped to engineer a tonne of stuff for the First Order, not just Starkiller. He’s overseen the development of various kinds of ships and weaponry, potentially including the TIE Silencer…
> 
> EDIT: I'm moving tomorrow and won't have internet until the second week of June (besides on my phone). As such, the next chapter might come a little later than expected, unless I have a chance in the evening to hit up a coffee shop and upload it once I've completed it. I'm sorry for the delay.


	5. A little idea is a dangerous thing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I NOW HAVE INTERNET!
> 
> I'm so sorry for the long delay between chapters. I moved at the end of May into a newly renovated house, but none of the previous owners had internet _or_ tv, which meant a lot of digging and electrical work needed to get done before we could get everything to work. Add to the fact that I'm a fool for forgetting to tell my tv/internet provider I was moving until a few days before the actual move, and what I ended up with was an appointment in mid-June. 
> 
> Yes, I am a moron.
> 
> Enjoy the chapter!!

_“A wise man will make more opportunities than he finds.”_

― Francis Bacon

~*8*8*8*~

Hux wasn’t much of a social butterfly when he was an officer.

As a young ‘up-start’ trying to climb the ranks, Hux didn’t want to leave anything to chance. He never drank outside of special events, never gambled, and never took questionable trips planet-side during his down time. In fact, he rarely used his down time. He couldn’t afford to give anyone the opportunity to invent a rumor, which meant he spent almost every waking hour working, well in view of everyone, always under the constant scrutiny of his superiors. Of course, the stress of living under a microscope was worth it in the end; even Brendol’s old chums couldn’t deny that he was worth Snoke’s attention when he eventually pitched the idea of _Starkiller_ base, and he was promoted to General well before he estimated he would earn the rank. Sacrificing pleasure for power, therefore, seemed like such an easy trade-off for someone who wanted nothing more than the opportunity to dance on his father’s grave.

Therefore, it was with considerable spite toward his other self that Hux tried to never miss an opportunity to ‘have a cold one’, so to speak, with his newfound friends, even if their conversations tended to delve into complete nonsense the deeper they drank into their cups. He’d even been inebriated himself a handful of times, although Kaydel recently made him promise he wouldn’t drink until she could safely do so again. Even then, he continued to spend every odd evening with them, although more often with Finn in recent days, who had taken to teaching hand-to-hand combat to new recruits as his de facto contribution to the Resistance. Like Hux, he was still learning how to loosen up in regular company, though Hux knew that he, too, was plagued by nightmares and that some of his worst days came without warning.

“Do you still have them?”

Hux stared down into his tarine tea, both hands wrapped around the cup, soaking up the warmth on this bitterly cold evening. Tucked into the booth beside him at their favorite haunt, Kaydel was trying the tea for herself; she looked like she couldn’t decide if she liked it or not just yet. She froze mid-sip when Finn asked his question.

“Yes,” Hux replied after a short stretch of silence, not meeting his companion’s eyes from across the table. He bunked with Finn for a while shortly after his liberation, so the man knew he had night terrors in the first place, but since Hux avoided talking about it, few people knew he still suffered from them.

Or that was he was still afraid of being caught.

The First Order wasn’t entirely kind to traitors, at least when they were picked up by isolated squadrons off on unrelated missions, but Hux’s fears didn’t entirely centre on the sort of treatment waiting for him at their hands. Of course, the promise of being beaten, raped, and murdered wasn’t something he was sure he could handle with much grace, but the true source of his terror stemmed instead from the possibility of being found by someone specifically sent to retrieve him by Ren. He often dreamed of being paralyzed then, at least when it came to his independent wants and needs; he could too easily envision Ren’s will overriding his own, of being forced to do unspeakable things as he watched helplessly through the lens of his eyes.

Finn hummed, as though he had guessed as much, and then took a swig of his drink. He didn’t indulge in liquor often, so something must have happened today, something that reminded him of his life before his daring escape with Poe Dameron.

Thinking of Poe had Hux glancing at the crowded doorway, wondering how long it would be before the others arrived. Poe knew how to lighten the mood. He was a dangerously optimistic fellow.

“You ever wonder what would happen if they caught you?” Finn asked quietly.

“…This is a rather somber topic of conversation,” Kaydel interjected gently. “Are you alright? Do you want to talk to someone about this?”

“Ha, _no_ ,” Finn chuckled, trying to lighten the mood, smiling despite his inner turmoil. He glanced down into his cup, which Hux suspected was at least still half full, and said, “I’m going to grab another—you guys good with your tea? You want something to eat with that?”

“We’re fine,” Hux replied, watching his friend slip away, disappearing toward the bar. Part of him wanted to continue the conversation, because Finn clearly needed to get something off his chest, but Kaydel was right. They were hardly the best people to discuss this matter with, not least of all because Hux could barely handle his own demons lately.

However, now that the topic was on his mind, his old anxieties were creeping up on him again. “I do,” he said suddenly, staring down into his tea, watching the steam rise. “Think about it, I mean. More often than is healthy, I suppose.”

Kaydel laid her hand against his back, rubbing her thumb between his shoulder blades. With a sigh, she said, “Well…you _did_ manage to piss off one of the most powerful men in the universe, so your concerns are certainly valid. But I think you should probably have a chat with someone yourself. You barely sleep at night.”

“I know,” he replied, taking a deep breath. He’d been haunted by such a stupid thought lately, one he was almost too ashamed to share. However, now that the opportunity had presented itself, he knew he needed to tell her before he lost his courage. “I’m just…afraid of allowing myself to believe it’s all over, as if I could somehow do myself more harm than good by pretending I’m safe. So long as the First Order exists, it seems almost inevitable that I will encounter them again.”

Kaydel was silent for a long moment. She leaned in closer to him, resting against his arm. He knew she had enough on her mind already with their child on the way and her reassignment looming just as soon as she was well enough to return to service. She would still be facing the First Order on a daily basis, the organization that had already stolen so many of her friends and family away from her. His concerns were small compared to hers.

“I forget myself,” Hux quickly apologized. “You have far greater things to worry about. I—”

“Relax, babe,” she chuckled, a wiry smile on her lips. She paused to sip her tea, which she appeared to be warming up to. “…This tastes an awful lot like something my grandfather used to make.”

“I think tarine tea is the second most popular non-caffeinated tea in the universe.”

“I’ve always been more of a caf drinker,” she mused. Having taken this brief opportunity to collect her thoughts, she finally continued: “We’re both realists, so I know there’s no use trying to convince you to let your guard down. While I feel like we’re safe here in the Talos System, either one of us could be gone tomorrow. The First Order now has fewer targets to track down and more manpower than any other criminal organization in the universe, and I think this is an issue we probably should address sooner rather than later.”

“What issue in particular?”

“The question of what you would do to get away from them if they _did_ catch up to you.”

Hux took another deep breath…What _wouldn’t_ he do? Every method that his other self utilized, Hux had no qualms employing himself. He’d already spent a decade watching quietly from the shadows as his other self fucked, murdered, or lied his way out of a variety of dangerous or morally questionable situations, and it would be all too easy to do the same, not least of all because Hux hated just about everyone in the First Order. If Hux sensed a weak link somewhere or found an opening he could squeeze through, he’d use every dirty trick in the book to get away from them.

“Anything,” Hux replied, resolute.

Kaydel smiled again, although she looked a little sad. “Anything?” she asked. “Could you be vicious? …I think I would want you to be vicious.”

“…What if I had to be gentle?” he asked, not because he had any intention of using kid gloves on anyone that marched under Ren’s banner, but because he knew there were specific strategies that needed to be used in certain situation, even if he found some a little less tasteful than others.

Kaydel glanced up at his forehead, as if she could see the gears turning inside his head. He’d already told her every way in which he had ever exploited anyone as his other self, all the bodies he’d left in his wake, all the sacrifices he had to make just so that he could stay in the game. Much to his relief, she never seemed repulsed by him, as if she knew the divide between his two selves was complete, even if he had his own doubts about that from time to time.

“All I’m saying,” she elaborated, “is that if you have to be like _him_ , don’t hesitate. I don’t care what you do, just as long as you promise to fight tooth and nail to get away from them.”

“I would,” he promised, because he wanted to stay with her just as much as she wanted to stay with him.

He’d be willing to utterly unmake himself if it meant being with her until the bitter end.

~***~

His visit with Kirian makes the next deprivation session a little easier to bear.

He’s still kept in the dark long enough that he begins to hallucinate: He sees the rain again; he sees people, some he doesn’t know and some he does, most notably his wife and son; he sees metal gears, interlocked and twirling, ticking down the swollen hours, minutes, seconds to something that feels dangerously momentous.

This time, though, he isn’t as afraid, and occasionally, without even thinking about it, he drifts into his sanctuary. When he does, he makes an effort to stay there for a while, the imaginary sun warm on his face, the sand soft against his back. He still worries, because what else can he do, but his head is finally level enough that he begins to scheme in earnest.

It helps that Dante returns one day, looking better rested than before. His silhouette looms over Hux, blocking out the sun like something ominous and unyielding, but when Hux squints he can make out the other man’s faint, natural smile, a welcome sight if ever there was one.

“You know,” Dante says, “you look pretty natural as a blond.”

“I dyed it because I was trying to pass as a Dulathian, which is what my wife is,” Hux explains, slowing sitting up. “I was posing as a refuge, one who’d lost all his documents, so that they would excuse my lack of a formal ID for our wedding license on Talos Prime.”

“Where’s she at right now?” Dante asks, taking a seat beside him, slowly, stiffly, his physical exhaustion carrying over into this world. Even so, the rings around his eyes are not as pronounced, and there’s a bit of colour to his face. Clearly, he’s been getting more rest as of late. “Not with the other captives, I hope?”

“No, but Ren was able to take my son. He’s aboard this ship.”

Dante bows his head forward, suddenly solemn. “I’m…sorry to hear that. How old is he?”

“Almost two.”

Almost two, and already he’s been sucked into the great, maniacal machine that is the First Order.

Hux closes his eyes and rubs the bridge of his nose, trying to not to dwell on the matter. Kirian was happy, healthy, and in good hands when Hux saw him last. He’d always been an easy-going child, which was already doing wonders for him. If, perhaps, Hux could get another chance to see him, he could almost normalize this whole situation for the boy, at least until they escaped.

Because they would escape.

Hux wasn’t ready to give up on that idea just yet.

“You look better,” Hux remarks, trying to change the subject.

“I’ve reached another one of their ‘milestones’,” Dante replies, “So, they’ve been letting me sleep a little more often. I would’ve visited you earlier, but Seir practically never rests, and he’s my warden, so to speak. I can only come here when he lets his guard down, which is rarely.”

“Is he Ren’s second in command? Of all the Knights, I recall that he and Ren kept in contact with each other most often.”

“I would certainly think so. Most of the other Knights are off doing their own work for the First Order, but Ren keeps Seir pretty close at hand and gives him the brunt of the students to supervise. He’s…good at what he does.”

“Are most of these students also reluctant members of Ren’s cult?” Hux inquires, needing answers but not wanting to stir up any negative emotions in his companion. He thinks the man has suffered enough without having an unnecessary reminder of his own reluctance in being here.

Dante squints thoughtfully into the distance, apparently not upset by the question. “I’d say…about half of the people the Knights brought in so far were taken against their will. However, the vast majority of those no longer consider themselves prisoners. There is certainly something seductive in learning how to use the Force, and Kylo Ren has been honest in offering unimaginable power to them in return for their loyalty.”

Power corrupts. _That_ was a tale as old as time, although Hux suspects a decent amount of self-preservation also went into any decision behind accepting Ren’s offer.

“What does he do with all the rest?” Hux inquires.

“The promise of pain is also a powerful motivator, let me tell you…” There’s a weak laugh from Dante, as if this is the path he’s most familiar with. “But there are a select few who’ve absolutely refused to bend to his will even then, and he’s dealt with them accordingly.”

“He’s killed them?”

“No need.” Dante offers Hux his hand, palm up; oddly enough, there’s nothing in it. “May I? This is something I’ve gotten better at.”

“At what?” Hux asks, confused as to what Dante is expecting from him.

“Reversing my talent—I can show you a little of what I know, although the process is still a bit sloppy. I would like to give it a go with you, if you’re up for it.”

Hux blinks in surprise. Having someone else on the ship whose eyes he could see through, who could relay important information to him either directly or indirectly, would be an unexpected boon— _if_ Dante could really do what he claimed.

“Do your worst,” Hux replies, giving Dante his hand—

— _Five girls of various ages are seated around a table. A man is handing out plates to them as a woman on Hux’s left— **Dante’s** left turns to him and says, “Find Merinla”—_

_—He’s trapped in a room with sixty other people, all eagerly awaiting the mayor. There’s a cacophony of noise bouncing around inside his head. He wishes they wouldn’t think so loud—_

_—A hulking man is straining against some unseen force, ready to reacquaint him with his maker; Dante has never been so terrified in all his life—_

_—Strapped down to a gurney, a young man strains against his binds. His mouth is taped shut, and his left arm is hooked up to an IV drip containing some white, pearlescent fluid. He’s dressed in the familiar black tunic of Ren’s cult, a wayward student now being shown the error of his ways. Beads of sweat gather on his brow as his treatment nears its conclusion._

_Captain Levit Rotan is standing at the young man’s side, eyeing the rhythmic drip of the IV bag. He looks quite pleased with himself as he turns to one of the other men in attendance and says, “How does it feel this time, Lord Seir?”_

_Seir has situated himself at the head of the gurney, hands outstretched on either side of their captive’s face, clearly meddling with the inner workings of the poor man’s mind. “Smoother, Captain,” he responds, his voice a soft rasp through the vocoder of his helmet._

_Their captive shudders suddenly, body seizing before he ever so slowly relaxes, as if something has finally broken inside him. Eyes drooping almost completely shut, he now lies there in an unsettling silence, seemingly dead._

_But he’s not dead. Dante can tell. A little poking around inside and he can still sense the other man’s consciousness, a similar, if somewhat unsteady, hum to that of a person trapped in the deepest of slumbers, almost a coma. Beneath the surface, Dante can also feel something bumping around inside, another consciousness, one that’s running its fingers through the cords of his memories, his existence, cutting some, rearranging others, clearing the way of anything…‘unwanted’._

_Dante’s only in there for all of a second before Seir’s head snaps up, finally aware of his presence. Panicking, Dante backpedals. But it’s too late. He’s been caught, as signified by the burning pain now between his eyes, steadily growing stronger—_

Hux retracts his hand suddenly as if burned. In reality, he feels no pain, but the memory was vivid enough that it easily could’ve fooled him.

Dante allows him a moment to digest what he just saw in silence, smiling a sad smile, eyes downcast, as if ruminating on what followed after his detection.

Hux always knew that Force-users could bend a person’s will to their own, but, as far as he was aware, they could usually only impose one or two commands on a person at a time, and there seemed to be a time limit on how long those commands would be followed before a person came back to their senses. What Rotan and Seir were doing felt like something… _deeper._ And far more permanent.

“Rotan’s improved upon the First Order’s reconditioning program,” Dante explains.

“ ‘Reconditioning’ is just a fancy term for ‘torture’,” Hux mutters, thinking about the IV and that pearlescent fluid, Rotan’s peculiar invention. “They occasionally use drugs to make a person slightly more susceptible to suggestion, but the rest of the process is just pain and propaganda. They push a person until they agree to anything and everything they say, regardless of whether they really do. What you just showed me is…something a little more than that.”

“Rotan’s a brilliant chemist,” Dante continues, somewhat bitterly, clearly pained at having to admit the Captain was ‘brilliant’ at anything; it’s clear that they have an unfortunate history together, although Hux supposes there isn’t a soul on this ship that much likes Rotan anyway. “From what I’ve heard, he made his rank in the Research Department. His drug completely breaks down a person’s mental defenses. It puts them in a state of quasi self-perception, a safe place where any of the Knights can pluck at a person’s memories, modifying or destroying them at will. There’s no hope of a push-back once they reach you all the way down there.”

“With Rotan’s help, they can rewrite the narrative of a person’s life, at least how they remember it?”

“Precisely,” Dante replies. “Take, for example, the Praetorian Guard. They’re some of the best Force-null warriors from their respective planets, and most of them started off wanting the Supreme Leader dead. Once they were captured, they were ‘corrected’ by Rotan and molded into some of his most faithful acolytes.”

Hux feels a chill pass through him, the kind that the sunlight of his mind can’t possibly chase away. No wonder Rotan strutted around like a prime cock. He’d just given Ren the means to expand his school and build an army unlike anything the Resistance could ever hope to achieve. In fact, Ren no longer needed to kill any of his enemies if he could instead isolate and subdue them. He already had a following large enough to oppose Rey’s small group of students. He could turn her—he could turn his _mother_ , and then where would they be? The moment he ensnared the very heart of the Resistance, it would be all over for the universe.

Dante shifts subtly beside him, eyeing the sand, carding his fingers through it gently. “So…yeah. You can see how bad this is.”

Taking a deep breath and then slowly blowing it out, Hux reminds himself to tackle this problem one step at the time. If he wishes for them to succeed, he can’t allow himself to panic—and they _can_ succeed, even if the odds are stacked against them.

“As desperate as our situation seems,” Hux replies, cautiously optimistic, “I might have an idea on how to contact the Resistance. On the sly, of course.”

Dante’s head snaps up at that statement, blinking in surprise. Hux can tell he’s trying not to sound too hopeful when he says, “You do?”

“There’s no guarantee it will work,” Hux cautions, not wanting to get the other man’s hopes up for nothing, “and it will undoubtedly take quite some time to achieve, which would only increase the likelihood of us being found out. With that in mind, would you—?”

“God, _yes_ ,” Dante replies, face splitting into a broad smile. “Whatever you need, I’m your guy.”

“Good, because I won’t be able to do this without you.”

“If that’s really the case, keep in mind—” Dante taps his temple with his finger “—I can’t call anyone I haven’t shared a mental connection with yet, and you just so happen to be the only member of the Resistance with whom I’ve accomplished that. I might not be as useful to you as you think.”

“I shared a mental connection with Leia Organa for ages,” Hux reminds him. “I was therefore thinking you might be able to teach me a thing or two...”

There’s a moment of stunned silence from his companion before Dante says, “You know, that might just be possible…although, like you said, it would take quite some time—not that I doubt your ability to learn, but Seir and Kylo Ren have spent a considerable amount of time and effort trying to help me teach them my tricks with…mixed results.”

“To be honest with you, the Supreme Leader is the one who gave me the idea,” Hux replies. All that talk of unraveling the mystery of Hux’s own peculiar abilities and further opening the minds of Ren’s students made him realize that such a thing could be possible, and, if so, there was no reason Hux shouldn’t take advantage of the situation. “He indicated that he’d like to include me in his ‘analysis’ of people who’ve been connected to the Force through unconventional means so that he can better understand how to strengthen that connection. Oddly enough, I think if anyone can bring out the Force in someone, it’s likely him. In fact, a colleague of mine, Rey, told me she believes her own connection was forged through Ren’s meddling.”

Frowning at him curiously, Dante asks, “Well, how about you then? Could you always bring other people into this reality, or was that only after Kylo Ren started poking around inside your head?”

What an interesting question…

Luke, of course, was the original creator of his sanctuary, but Hux never had any _precise_ control over it until Ren discovered he was an agent of the Resistance. Of course, that could just be a coincidence. Organa and he had a set system for their covert operations prior to his discovery, one that left the reins primarily in her hands. Once Ren severed Hux’s connection with her, Hux was left to his own devices. The stress of being caught in Ren’s web and the necessity of finding his own means of escape could’ve pushed him over the edge into taking a more active role in manipulating his reality.

However, there were quite a few points in favour of what Dante was suggesting. First, Rey’s life was stressful enough before she encountered Ren, yet it wasn’t until he tried to break down her mental defences during their little interrogation session that she began demonstrating a connection to the Force. Second, the fact that Ren’s Knights had always been so faithful to him struck both Hux and his other self as a little odd. Ren was a powerful man, sure, but the disciples of the Dark Side had a history of continuously trying to cut each other down, _especially_ when someone began to pose too much of a threat to the others. Additionally, Ren was hardly the most mature member of his ilk. Hux didn’t even think he was the _oldest_ , yet the other Knights continued to follow his lead, never once questioning his authority, at least from what Hux could tell. If it was true that Ren could somehow make even them stronger Force users, that would clear up any confusion over the matter considerably. In fact, Dante himself stated that Ren was honest in offering his followers unimaginable power. Perhaps that was literally the case.

“You could be right,” Hux concedes. “You’ve said so yourself that he’s managed to expand your own abilities. Would you care to explain how?”

Leaning back, elbows digging into the sand to keep himself propped up, Dante squints in concentration. After a beat, he says, “Some tricks are still a struggle for me. Others are not. Even then, I don’t think I’m getting the standard outcome using the same… _means_ that he or Seir utilize.”

“What do you mean?”

Dante lowers himself even further onto the sand, lying back, hands folded together over his stomach. Hux can tell he’s fidgeting because he’s uncomfortable with conversation, and so Hux makes the decision that he won’t push this discussion anymore if his companion would rather drop the whole thing altogether.

Fortunately, Dante is feeling up to answering that question: “Telekinesis is still an issue for me, but that’s a story for another time. I can’t move anything with the same finesse that anyone else can, although I can give a pretty hard push when I’m scared out of my wits. It’s the whole ‘mind-control’ methodology that really gives me the heebie-jeebies, although it’s the one thing they’ve really been pushing me to perfect lately.”

Hux could understand why; Dante was already able to enter the mind with frightening ease. Hux can remember the first time Dante slipped into his own, wholly undetected—and then he went on to later chaperone two _other_ individuals into Hux’s sanctuary. It was obvious why Ren would think influencing the wills of others would be well within Dante’s abilities.

“Whenever Seir does it, he simply utters a few words and then mentally takes a step back,” Dante continues. “He’s told me he feels a kind of ‘shift’ in the Force when he does it, but that’s about it. I, on the other hand, can only do it if slip into someone’s mind and think about what ‘I’ would want to do if I were them. And it feels…it feels disgusting. First, there’s a heavy push back from them, an initial flailing from the attack, and then they freeze up inside. Their natural thoughts feel stiff and wholly automatic, making way for whatever I decide to put in there…I hate it. I’ve only tried it a handful of times on First Order personnel, but I feel like such a monster whenever I do.”

“I can’t believe Rotan hasn’t tried to capitalize on you already,” Hux mutters. From the sounds of it, Dante would be a dream on an interrogation team, which is, unironically, exactly the kind of place Ren used to get his kicks between running off on covert missions and redecorating the _Finalizer’s_ more sensitive equipment with his shoddy lightsaber. Elitist that he is, Ren loved to do anything that demonstrated how far above everyone else he was, and what better way to do that then to coax the secrets from a prisoner’s lips with a single command.

“There’s something very wrong with that man,” Dante mutters darkly.

“He’s a psychopath, just like his father.”

“I mean, well, _yeah_ …” Dante replies, trailing off, as if he’d like to harp on the Captain more but realizes that now is neither the time nor place. “Anyway—the plan, as it stands, is to teach you how to make an intergalactic call to the head of the Resistance, basically re-installing you as her undercover agent in the First Order? Did I get that right?”

“I just need to be able to get one message out to her,” Hux clarifies, “which is where we are, at least relative to what System we’re in. Would you be able to get that information from someone?”

“Nobody usually volunteers that kind of information to me, but I can try jumping between brains the next time Seir ‘s asleep and see what I can find. I guess my main concern with this whole project is the sheer amount of energy this endeavour of ours is going to pull from the Force. Not that I think you can’t handle it—in fact, I think I can give you the boost you need if you can figure out a way to open a connection with Organa—but any other Force users on this ship are going to _know_ we’re up to something once we try our first dry run.”

“To be honest, I don’t think they will,” Hux replies. Dante, predictably, looks baffled by his disagreement, so he elaborates. “You have to remember that Luke designed this place _specifically_ to allow me to maintain contact with Leia Organa on a regular basis under the previous Supreme Leader’s nose. It should mask how much we’re meddling in the Force. There’s only a risk if someone coincidentally decides to go poking around inside either of our heads while we’re up to no good, which is the only reason Ren discovered my duplicity in the first place.”

Sitting up again, Dante glances around himself at the sunny scenery as if reminding himself of how curious it is that _their_ current conversation hasn’t yet been rudely interrupted by interlopers. Satisfied, he gives a small nod. “I guess you’re right. You’ve been equipped for this kind of task. We’re still going to have to keep our heads down while we figure out how to do this, because if Kylo Ren, Seir, or any of the other Knights decide to read one of our minds on a whim, the gig is up.”

“We’ll have to be on our best behaviour,” Hux agrees. Since Ren decided to tear through all his thoughts and memories during their first meeting aboard this ship, searching for clues to Leia’s and Rey’s whereabouts, Ren might not keep track of anything more than surface thoughts while conducting his ‘training’. Or so Hux hopes. Ren might discover their plans sooner than either of them can anticipate.

But it was far too late to turn back now. The brainchild of this plan had already been planted. They were walking a fine line and still had quite a ways to go, and cowardice wasn’t going to carry them the distance.

“I’ll give it my all,” Dante promises.

“Thank you.”

“I should really be thanking you. Even with Janym, it’s been lonely. So, it’s nice to see a familiar face after all this time, and I’m glad you’re in the right frame of mind to conjure up an escape plan, because there’s no way in hell I’m getting out of here on my own.”

“Who’s Janym?” Hux asks, although he’s assuming this is one of Ren’s newer followers.

“She’s the Togruta of our happy little family,” Dante replies. “She’s another unconventional student; she can crush a TIE fighter in the blink of the eye, but she has no telepathic abilities whatsoever. Seir’s paired us up in the hopes that we can help one another tackle our respective weaknesses, although that’s slow-going…”

“Is she someone we can trust?” It would be a boon if they could find another ally on the inside, especially another Force user. That’s not to say Hux would immediately let her in on their plan, because they were walking on thin enough ice as it was with this scheme of theirs floating around in both their heads, but Hux was willing to help anyone who wanted to leave the First Order, however long it took him.

“Oh, that’s a hard _no_ ,” Dante quickly responds, dashing any thoughts of another confidant. “Besides the fact that she’s an exceptionally angry individual, she loves the idea of being a part of a race of superior beings. She and her family were slaves in a mining colony though, so I can’t exactly blame her.”

“That’s a pity,” Hux remarks. He knew the Dark Side had its allure, especially for those who had been beaten down one way or another in life. In fact, they were the prime targets for this sect, sucked in by the promise of control and independence, although they would be given neither if they didn’t first surrender those rights to Ren, who really only wanted puppets and soldiers.

“Maybe she could be brought around,” Dante muses, staring off into the distance again, ruminating over variables only he knew. “That’s a _big_ maybe though, so I think we’d better proceed as if we’re the only two people who can do a damn thing about this situation—unless you know of another Force user the First Order picked up from Talos during the invasion?”

“Not to my knowledge.” Hux has friends-aplenty amount those in the Brig, but not anyone who was overtly talented with the Force.

“Then I guess this is where we stand for the moment. I’ll try to figure out where the _Revenant_ is and where we’re heading before we chat again. Good luck with your ‘lessons.’”

Hux sits in stunned silence as Dante rises to his feet, brushing the sand off the back of his thighs. Curious, Hux then says, “This ship is called the _Revenant_?”

“That it is. What, too dramatic? I thought that was the norm with ship names.”

“No, it’s… no particular reason,” Hux murmurs, staring down at the sand, remembering the many nights his other self had spent brainstorming the design for _Starkiller_ base, wondering what it would finally look like and what he would call it. While ‘ _Starkiller_ ’ had finally won out prior to his first pitch to the late Supreme Leader, the _‘Revenant’_ had been a close second. In fact, the only reason it lost was because it sounded less like a weapon and more like a tribute to the _Death Star_.  Hux didn’t want to live in another shadow, not after being known as “Brendol’s” whelp for stars knows how long; he wanted to be known as the next level ‘up’.

Dante studies him for a second, then steps around behind Hux, saying, “Godspeed, my friend,” as he goes.

When Hux glances over his shoulder to follow him, the other man has vanished, returning to whatever personal hell is waiting for him on the other side of reality.

Alone again, he lies back against the sand, the sun warm on his face, and closes his eyes.

When he opens them, he finds the ever-faithful darkness waiting for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Someone sent me an anonymous question on my tumblr account asking if I would be willing to write a one-shot from Ren's perspective. If I were to do that, what time-frame would you want set in? Just an intermediary point between _Daydreamer_ and _Fevered Dream_? Something during or immediately after _Lucid Dreamer_? (Etc.) Whatever it would be, it would be short, because I wouldn't want to give away too much information about the inner workings of Ren's mind, but I'd still totally be down for it. Let me know if you would be interested in reading something like that.


	6. Into the Shallows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I'm sorry. This update shouldn't have taken nearly as long as it did to get here.
> 
>  
> 
> _*Hides face in shame*_

_“Indeed, the safest road to hell is the gradual one – the gentle slope, soft underfoot, without sudden turnings, without milestones, without signposts."_

― C.S. Lewis, The Screwtape Letters

~***~

He feels as though this deprivation session is shorter than the last. Of course, he has no way of reliably measuring the passage of time—he’s even noticed that his meals don’t necessarily follow a set schedule, delivered shortly after he wakes and then only once again right before he falls asleep, whenever that happens to be—but when the lights turn on and he approaches the mirror to shave this ‘morning’, he notices he doesn’t have as much bristle as before. Even so, it still adds up. Hours will bleed into days, and from there who can say where his precious little time will fly?

He knows, overall, that he’s been on the _Revenant_ for at least a month, as indicated by the half inch of copper at the root of his hair. Which is worrisome, of course, but more so for his allies, who can only rely on the limited information he shares with the President to gauge how well he and his fellow prisoners are faring.

After he’s showered and suited up in his blue uniform, the door slides open to reveal Streif and his usual stormtrooper entourage. “You will be attending a holo-conference with O’manan in an hour,” the Captain says, handing Hux a datapad as he steps out into the hall. It’s a list of pre-approved items Hux can share with her and a few inquiries he’s supposed to investigate during their call. “Same procedure as the first time. Any questions?”

Glancing at the list, Hux gets an inkling that there are riots currently on Gammit, no doubt in response to the hostile takeover. The First Order wants the names and numbers of any known transgressors and for a curfew to be implemented until things settle down again.

“How is Senator Trass?” Hux asks, recalling that the man had suffered a heart attack last they spoke.

“Stable,” Streif replies, starting off down the corridor.

Hux keeps pace beside him, switching to a different tab on the datapad, bringing up a new list, this of all the Talos prisoners aboard the ship. “How is everyone else faring?”

“Senator Pentus passed away three cycles ago.”

Even knowing that Pentus was seventy years old and had a slew of medical conditions, Hux is jolted by that statement. However, even though it bothers him that the First Order took so many elderly government officials in their sweep, he knows that this was done by design. The First Order could appear ‘civilized’ by never outright threatening to hurt anyone; they simply had to wait for the stress to drag them into their graves, imposing a natural sense of urgency on whatever demands they made of the President.

“Is that all?” Hux asks, hesitant.

“Yes,” Streif replies. “Now—was there anyone in particular you wanted to speak with before the meeting?”

It’s good, at least, that the Captain is upholding his previous permissions. As such, Hux glances down the list and picks a room housed by four female Senators. “1256.”

“Very well, but you only have two minutes, tops.”

And two minutes is literally how long he gives Hux to speak with the Senators. They bombard him with questions, many of which he can’t answer, and he’s only able to inquire in return about their general health and comfort before Streif is ushering him out of the room and down the corridor again.

He’s led to the same conference room as before, the one with the one-way mirror along the far wall and the solitary chair. Lt. Shvana stands at the ready in the corner, flanked by two stormtroopers as the lights dim and the hologram flickers to life, revealing President O’manan and her war council.

She stares at Hux for a long moment, the weariness evident in her eyes, before she finally nods to him in greeting. _“Councilman Connix.”_

“Madam President,” he nods in return.

Their conversation follows the script. For the most part. A few riots had indeed broken out on Gammit. As an ocean world made up of a vast collection of small island colonies, it was no wonder the First Order appeared to be having such trouble maintaining order there. However, O’manan was confident she could find a peaceful resolution to the problem herself, and permission was granted for her to proceed as she deemed fit, at least for now.

This discussion was followed by a brief comment from one of the Generals that the Doltarian System had been evacuated in its entirety, as promised, which admittedly hurt to hear. Hux knew that it wouldn’t take the First Order very long to find the kyber deposits and begin their mining operation. Then, Ren would have more fire power then he could possibly dream of.

It’s only as Hux is sharing what he knows about the current state of his fellow prisoners, the final topic of their conversation, that O’manan strays into uneasy territory. Clearing her throat, she asks, “How is your son doing?”

In the corner of his eye, he can see Lt. Shvana pressing a finger against her earpiece, listening in to see if Hux has the freedom to answer that question.

Even though Hux is aware that he needs to be on his best behaviour, he also knows anything he tells O’manan will be relayed to Leia and Kaydel, and that hesitating to give an answer might give them the wrong impression. He therefore immediately replies simply with, “He’s well, thank you for asking.”

The corner of O’manan’s mouth crooks into a small smile before she nods and says, “That’s good to hear. Farewell, Councilman.”

Then the call ends and Hux is left momentarily in the dark before the overhead lights flicker to life again.

“That wasn’t part of the approved list,” Shvana snaps, clearly annoyed.

“I beg your pardon,” Hux replies softly, trying not to sound antagonistic, “but the last item on the list technically allows for a discussion of anyone taken prisoner from Talos Prime. That includes my son.”

“To my knowledge, he’s been added to the officers’ program. He’s no longer a prisoner.”

“There’s no distinction written here that says I’m limited to talking about only current prisoners; my son was classified as a prisoner when you removed him from the planet.”

“You can’t just—”

“Enough,” Captain Streif mutters as he strolls into the room, sounding more tired than upset. “Lieutenant, he can talk about his son. Councilman—” Streif looks pointedly at Hux as he rises from his seat, “don’t pretend to be dense.”

Hux gives the man a slight nod of apology. Lt. Shvana still looks annoyed, but she says nothing more as Hux is led from the room.

He’s surprised when Streif starts off in the opposite direction of the Brig. The Captain scans his datapad for a moment before powering it down and tucking it under his arm, slowing his usual clipped gait to a more casual pace. “I’ve been asked to deliver you to Lord Seir.”

Heart leaping into his throat, hoping against all hope Seir doesn’t decide to rifle through his mind the way Ren did, Hux tries to sound nonchalant as he asks, “Why’s that?”

“You’re one of them, aren’t you?” Streif side-eyes him for a moment. Then he glances over his shoulder at the four stormtroopers following them at a distance, rifles at the ready should Hux try anything stupid. “How long have you been able to do…” he waves his hand vaguely in the air, “whatever it is that you do?”

Unsure if anything of what he can tell Streif is, in fact, _safe_ to tell the other man, Hux’s first instinct is to say nothing. However, the Captain obviously went out on a limb to get him his brief visit with Kirian, and Streif seems curious simply for his own sake, so Hux eventually finds himself searching for an answer—which isn’t exactly easy, because he hardly knows what that is.

“I think…” he begins, casting his mind back to his memories of Luke, feeling a little of his familiar warm for his old mentor, but feeling a little heartbroken, too, because the man had moved onto greater and grander things forever now. “I was given the potential when I was twenty-four, but I didn’t grow into my abilities until the time around which the former Supreme Leader was killed.”

“And what are your ‘abilities’ precisely?”

“I don’t know,” he replies, honest. Who knows how far Ren and his clan will push him? Maybe he’s only capable of the one trick; maybe, with the help of Dante, he can accomplish so much more. “I suppose I’m about to find out.”

Streif hums in response. They continue walking another minute in silence. Then Hux feels a question creeping up on him, one he can’t help but ask, just to test the waters, really: “What ship is this?”

The Captain side-eyes him again, more with caution than curiosity this time. It’s obvious there’s certain information he’s not allowed to share, but, fortunately, he can apparently answer this: “The _Revenant_ ,” he replies. “It’s almost a year old now, I believe.”

“Who named it?”

Streif frowns, thinking. “Unless I’m mistaken…that would be the Supreme Leader. Why do you ask?”

Honestly, Hux doesn’t know. Either Ren used that name to spite him or because he was feeling nostalgic— _or_ there was no connection between Hux and the naming of this ship at all. Maybe Ren felt as though he had been reborn. Or maybe he was trying to draw attention to the fact that the First Order had been given a new purpose under his rule. Hux certainly wasn’t going to ask him about it.

Knowing he can’t leave Streif hanging, Hux says, “I just wonder why the Supreme Leader would want to use a Star Destroyer as his flagship.”

There’s a brief pause as Streif considers his answer. “While he uses the _Revenant_ most often, he technically doesn’t have a flagship. He goes wherever he is needed most, using whatever means available.”

Snoke’s refusal to leave the _Supremacy_ didn’t sit well with many officers during his reign. Hux could see why Ren wouldn’t want to make the same mistake, although Ren had always been something of a nomad, so his approach was hardly a surprise. In fact, back in the day, Hux swore Ren only ever showed up on the _Finalizer_ half as often as he did just to intimidate or annoy him. 

“The way I remember it,” Hux replies, thinking about his time as a General, “his habit of jumping unexpectedly between ships caused a great deal of anxiety and stress for First Order personnel.”

There’s a nasally huff of disproval from Streif as the Captain realizes Hux has backed him into a bit of a corner, one where praise for Ren’s current behavior could be indirectly interpreted as criticism for his old habits. However, Streif quickly finds a way around the problem when he says, “Any personnel that feared him likely did so because he was aware of their deceit. He’s long since culled these imposters from our midst and made us stronger as a whole.”

 _‘If you say so,’_ Hux thinks, though they both know that isn’t true. The beast is still there, waiting, lurking below the surface of Ren’s calm façade.

Hux only wonders who helped him tame it.

They say nothing more as Streif leads him toward the training rooms and facilities. The corridors here are packed with exhausted stormtroopers and officers out of uniform trudging toward their quarters. Hux gets more than a few glances, some of which linger on his long, blue coat, an unusual colour on a ship such as this. Most people avert their gaze as soon as Streif notices, but a few of the bolder officers keep their eyes fixed on Hux as he’s led to a door guarded by two Praetorians, spears held at their sides, standing stiffly at attention.

Hux’s stomach lurches at the sight of them. He tries not to stare, but he can’t help but wonder what they must be feeling right now, these hollowed warriors, turned against their own people, now tied to the man they once loathed. They are the living, breathing example of the fate Hux fears most, men and women remade against their will in Ren’s image, his playthings for all eternity.

When the door slides open, Hux finally tears his eyes away from the guards, now scanning the large room beyond. There’s nothing remarkable about it; just a padded black floor and a long transparisteel wall opposite the door, which gives an excellent view of some small, red rock of a moon on their starboard side. Inside, there are only three individuals: Lord Seir, Dante, and the Togruta Hux believes is ‘Janym’.

 _“Thank you, Captain,”_ Lord Seir says as he glances over his shoulder at the newcomers, voice modified by the vocoder in his mask.

Streif gives the man a quick bow of his head. “Will that be all, sir?”

_“Yes.”_

Dismissed, Streif steps back into the corridor, leaving Hux alone with his ‘kind’ as the door slides shut again.

Even though Seir is now walking toward him, Hux finds his attention briefly slipping back toward Dante and his partner, both of whom are breathing heavily, as though they had been sparring only moments ago. Janym is frowning at him, although she looks more curious than anything, whereas Dante seems a little sad. He’s quite pale today, dark locks matted against his forehead, rubbing his left wrist tenderly as though he had just injured it.

 _“Rest,”_ Seir commands his students with a quick glance.

Hux stiffens as the Knight finally comes to a halt before him. He doesn’t know what to say or do—even less so when Seir removes his helmet.

Of all the Knights, Hux had only ever seen Ren without his helmet on before today. The way they persist in masking their faces, he’d always imagined they would each be… _difficult_ to behold. But Seir, as it turns out, is a surprisingly handsome man, blond, blue-eyed, and tall, holding perhaps an inch or two over Dante. The only mark on him is a faint cut that extends from the right corner of his jaw and down his throat, disappearing under his collar. To all outside appearances, there’s nothing about him that seems to be out of order.

The ghost of a smile Seir offers him only adds to Hux’s confusion. “Do you remember me?”

He only ever observed Lord Seir from afar, occasionally hearing of him in passing from Ren. “A little,” he replies.

“I remember you,” Seir continues. “You were fairly normal to the naked eye. Somehow, it doesn’t surprise me that it took nothing less than Luke Skywalker’s meddling to hide you in plain sight.”

Seir begins to pace around him. Hux shifts his gaze to Dante, who is now sitting on the ground, one knee propped up, his crossed arms braced against it. Janym is quietly standing beside him, looking less puzzled now and more relaxed, as though she knows something interesting is about to happen.

As Seir passes behind him, Hux turns on the spot. “I wasn’t—” he begins, but his voice fades out when he suddenly feels the soft sag of sand beneath his feet and hears the waves breaking against the shore of the lake; much like Ren, Seir was able to deliver him into his sanctuary without the slightest hint of interference.

Seir takes in the scenery for a moment, his gaze fixed briefly on a tiny white shell beside his left foot. His cape shifts gently in the cool breeze coming off the water. “Is this where he found you?” he asks.

Shocked by the unexpected shift between realities, it takes Hux a second to answer. “On this planet, yes.” He waves his hand vaguely toward the forest behind him. “I crashed a fair distance that way.”

“Your so-called ‘sanctuary’ is remarkably detailed.”

“Luke designed it.”

“Hm,” is all that Seir says, still staring down at the shell. Eventually, he returns his focus to Hux. “How do you use it?”

Hux tries very hard not to think about his clandestine meetings with Dante and says, “Sparingly.”

There’s another small smile from Seir. Amused, he says, “I mean, how do you transition from one plane of your mind to the other? You seemed surprised when I brought you here, and yet, to my knowledge, you were never originally in control of this shift of consciousness. Skywalker and Organa handled that part.”

“They did,” he agrees, “through the pull of sleep. When I learned how to do it on my own, it was much the same. I just had to close my eyes and relax.”

“Relax?” Seir asks, looking down at the sand again, toeing the shell onto its other side with his boot. “ _Only_ when you relax?”

“Yes,” he says, though he realizes immediately that’s not true. “I mean…no. I suppose that isn’t always the case.”

“How so?”

Hux thinks back on his unfortunate encounter with Stolas’ thugs, of almost being strangled. He thinks, too, of his mad scramble to get to Kirian, to save him from Rotan’s planned interrogation. Both times, he’d entered his sanctuary in a blind panic, dragging someone along with him.

“On a few occasions, when I was angry or afraid, I transitioned on reflex,” he replies.

“What were the circumstances surrounding these transitions?”

“They were both confrontations.” Hux takes a moment to ponder what other similarities the two situations shared. “I was otherwise ill-equipped to deal with my assailants, and each time we were in physical contact. Beyond that, I don’t know what makes either event so unique.”

Seir looks around himself again, squinting up at the sun, analyzing this strange world in earnest. All around them, Hux can hear the soft sounds of nature, the waves lapping at the beach, the beetles buzzing in the midday heat, the birds serenading in the trees. Hux focuses on them for a moment, finding a calmness inside himself as he waits for Seir to pass whatever silent judgement he has on Hux.

Finally, Seir says, “I agree with our Master. This—” he waves his hand out toward the lake, encompassing all, “—is not connected to any physical plane. This is a pocket of the Force marginally separated from all other things in the universe by a thin barrier, one that was created by Skywalker. In here, you can do virtually anything, but once we break down the barrier, you can begin to function anywhere.” He turns back to Hux. “You’ve already demonstrated that you can work through the barrier, although this, like all things, will take time and practice to perfect. Your problem is unique, but our Master already knows how to solve it. He is best equipped to help you.”

“What is my ‘problem’?” Hux asks. “And why is it so unique that it requires the Supreme Leader’s expertise?”

“To access it, an innate blindness to the Force is what most students must first overcome.” Seir says. “You, on the other hand, already have unrestricted access. What _you_ need to learn is how to bridge the gap between the Force and the world around you, which, as you’ve already explained, requires an emotional response. But this is not surprising—in fact, this is a well-known doctrine of our people.”

Hux sighs. He’s already heard Ren’s spiel on the Dark Side and its odd reliance on the ‘ _passions.’_ He’s half hoping Seir doesn’t launch into a lengthy monologue himself.

Surprisingly, Seir laughs. No doubt, he’s also well aware of Hux’s disapproval on the subject. “I’ve been told that you are normally a composed man. But you will see. Once you allow yourself to feel, I think you will accomplish great things.”

“Such as?”

Behind Hux, another voice says, “In time, you will be able to answer that question for yourself.”

There’s a jump in his pulse as he turns, somewhat stiffly, to see Ren further down the beach, black cloak swaying behind him as he makes his way toward them. Hux feels vulnerable standing between the two men. He doesn’t want either one of them at his back, though he doubts there’s any way he could defend himself even if he was facing them both head on.

“That’s good,” Ren says as he approaches, smirking. “Tension, fear, annoyance—hatred is stronger, by comparison, but every emotion is a stepping-stone in the right direction.”

“Are you just going to push my buttons until you see something resembling a result?” Hux asks, going against his better judgement to bite his tongue and keep a level head.

Years ago, he once advised Rey to keep her emotions in check whenever she engaged Ren, to cut her dark counterpart off from his sustenance. But given what he and Dante had set themselves out to do, to allow themselves to learn from the Knights of Ren and to stay in their ‘good graces’, he would have to employ the opposite strategy here.  

Much to his chagrin, he would have to follow Ren’s doctrine for once and allow himself to feel.

So, he does. He allows himself to feel ridiculously upset at yet another one of Ren’s intrusions, to feel insulted at being dragged into Ren’s petty little. In doing so, he begins to channel his waking self’s simmering fury, that silent, seething heat he was famously gifted in expressing without uttering a syllable.

In response, there’s a flicker of recognition and surprise in Ren’s eyes before he shares a smug little smile with Hux. “And there it is…feels good, doesn’t it?”

“It feels like a waste of energy,” Hux replies. His waking self would’ve agreed. Anger not only clouded one’s judgement, but it also prevented a person from mentally unwinding from all the other stressors of the day.

“Then let’s try another emotion,” Ren says as he breezes past him, obviously amused. “One a little more worthy of your _effort_.”

Hux turns and discovers that Seir is no longer there. He has no doubt that this isn’t the last he’ll see of the other man, though he’s upset he wasn’t given the opportunity to probe the man for a little more information about himself, to see what exactly Dante’s been dealing with since his own imprisonment here. So far as Hux is concerned, Seir’s the next biggest threat on this ship next to Ren.

Silent, Hux follows Ren into the forest. It’s a curious feeling being the one led through his own reality, but Ren knows this place well enough himself to find his way around. Hux hasn’t forgotten that horrific episode with the shadow of Brendol Hux and that tiring chase through the maze of an ancient temple. Ren’s invasion of this space, like all of his conquests, is complete, allowing him to move confidently through the thinning underbrush along the path to the small hut Hux once shared with Luke.

He sees the warm, grey stones peeking through the thickening of trees before their path winds into a wide, open space behind the hut, a place where Luke would often sit and meditate for hours on end. There’s his log, too, his favorite resting place, partially sunken into the warm grass, covered now in a light layer of moss. Resting against it are a few of Luke’s old walking sticks, whittled down a little in his boredom, some faintly decorated with curious symbols, etched into the wood for reasons known only to the late Skywalker.

Hux always feels a little sad when he thinks of the old man’s passing, but then a little contented and grateful, too, when he focuses on what a delight it was to have met Luke in the first place. Part of him wishes Luke knew that Hux had carved out a modest life for himself, that he had found a woman he loved and fathered a child he adored. He would have very much liked it if Kirian could’ve met him.

“Do you still think fondly of Skywalker?” Ren asks, eyeing the stone hut as if the sight of it brings back powerful memories of his own.

“Can’t you tell what I’m feeling?” Hux counters, wondering how deeply Ren is reading into him.

“I can,” Ren admits, shifting his gaze to the log. He leans down to grab one of the walking sticks, turning it over slowly in his gloved hands, reading the inscriptions. “You loved him.”

Hux almost asks the man if he can claim to _know_ what love is before quickly biting his tongue. Instead, he quietly reflects on the fact that Ren isn’t trying to shut down this discussion of Luke, much like he usually does. This is an improvement upon the tone such a conversation would’ve adopted three years ago.

Indeed, there is something very different about the man that stands before Hux today.

“I love him,” Hux admits. “Even when we were strangers, he showed me more kindness than my father. But you and I have had this discussion many times before…”

Ren nods slowly, “I’m well aware that I can’t change what you think of him, despite how deceptive I know he could be, but your love, at least, is genuine, and genuine love is a feasible way of affording a person more control over the Force, even if it isn’t the _greatest_ mechanism of control…”

“I’m surprised you would be willing to admit that,” Hux says, which he is, considering how easily Ren seems to mistake love with every other emotion on the spectrum.

Ren glances at him, his dark eyes searching, the faint furrow of his brow indecipherable. But then he quickly turns away again, now moving around the hut, angling toward the overgrown path on the other side. “Jhoice is a fair example. He’s a remarkably loving individual. Every man is his brother; every woman is his sister. It’s why he can connect to others so well; he welcomes them into himself with ease.”

“Jhoice?” Hux doesn’t believe he knows anyone by that name.

There’s a small stretch of silence as Ren realizes there’s information missing here. Leading the way down the overgrown path, to _where_ Hux hardly knows, he says, “You know him as Dantalian Tox.”

“You renamed him?” Hux remarks, regretting his question as soon as it’s spoken, because he already knows that the Knights of Ren believe in casting aside all ties to the past.

“Everyone must start their life anew, even if it means abandoning something as simple as a birthname.” He glances back briefly at Hux, branches snapping underfoot, hardly slowed by the foliage. “Haven’t you already done the same?”

True, but Hux changed his name purely out of necessity, to preserve his life and his freedom, however little good that did him in the end, not to fulfill some misguided attempt at rewriting his purpose in life…

Something occurs to him with that thought. While Ren has already openly referred to Hux as ‘Councilman,’ at least acknowledging Hux’s new identity, he’s only spoken his assumed name with obvious disdain. It’s possible he might expect Hux to abandon it now that he’s been introduced to Ren’s little cult.

That slows his step. In Dulathia, husbands more commonly took on the surname of their wives. It had therefore been all too easy to forge his papers after he assumed Kaydel’s, to pretend he had lost his documents as a refuge and rely on hers to prove he was who he said he was. She had a genuine background; all that anyone cared about was that at least one spouse had a lineage that could be accounted for, enough to show that he wasn’t really a terrorist from another star system.

On the business end, it made sense. However, Hux also happened to like his new name because…he just did. He liked how it connected him to his wife, even if it was superficially. Names held an odd sort of power, and by sharing hers with him, she had given him a little more freedom, a little more stability, a little more of herself than he could ever offer in return.

Ren doesn’t slow for him. “Aym, Orias, Ipos,” he says, “—you have until our next session to decide which name speaks to you.”

“And if I don’t?” Hux asks, trying to pick up his pace again, even though his legs suddenly feel like lead weights. He doesn’t want a new name. He knows it’s such a small thing to get upset over, but it’s certainly only the first of many changes yet to come; giving in, even if only by increments, will spell surrender in the end.

“One of those names is yours,” Ren replies. “If you can’t decide, we will guide you to the answer.”

Hux doesn’t want to him elaborate on what form that guidance will appear, so he drops the conversation there as they continue their trek.

After a while, he begins to recognize his surroundings. He realizes he’s always known this place because it exists within his reality, but this wasn’t somewhere he ever visited by choice. In fact, the last time he was here, an inner demon bearing his father’s face tried to brain him with a rather hefty rock.

Sure enough, he spots the four wooden posts where his companions were buried—five, technically, if you include the one he knocked over in his mad scramble to escape. This marks the figurative crash site for their transporter, most of the debris heavily buried under layers of moss and lithophytes. This is where he turned from a cold and callous young man contemplating ever-darkening deeds to one who could no longer find a good enough reason hold on to his hatred.

This is where his life took a turn for the better.

“I have no doubt of the significance this place holds for you,” Ren says as he approaches one of the posts, reaching out to inspect the dog tags tangled around an eight-point wooden star. Luke had made these, unbeknownst to Hux at the time, to mark their graves. “This is where fate delivered you to Luke. From that point on, your life diverged drastically from the path cut out for you by the First Order.”

It did indeed. In fact, he has no idea what other life event could’ve changed him as drastically as this one had. Being alone with Luke for so long, with someone who was sympathetic and patient and had Hux’s best interests at heart, was a truly eye opening experience. It reminded him that the universe was not the desolate cesspool of degeneracy that his father and the rest of the First Order had made it out to be, that perhaps it didn’t need to be wrangled and rebuilt into something ‘better’ under their thumb. Instead, there was an inherent goodness to the universe that could be nurtured through less violent means.

“For the better,” Hux finally replies.

“Then you agree that starting fresh is hardly a bad thing?”

“I think that all depends on where each new path leads a person.”

“This one leads to help,” Ren quietly elaborates, gently twining the chain back around its place on the grave marker. “I offered you agency once, years ago. You declined. I won’t pretend I wasn’t affected by such an absurd rejection, but if I’ve learned anything since bringing more Force users into the fold, it’s that it’s too easy to underestimate the magnitude or nature of the power I’m offering until it’s been experienced first-hand.”

“I’ve also recently declined to learn anything you have to say about the Force,” Hux says, reminding him of their previous conversation, “and you vetoed my decision, although I have no idea why you would want to teach me anything at all ‘empowering,’ considering our shared history.”

“I don’t think you had all the information you needed at the time to make a truly informed decision,” Ren states plainly. “If you are willing to do what I tell you, to learn from what I am prepared to teach you, I think we might begin to see eye-to-eye.”

Hux already knows there’s nothing Ren could do or say to convince him that his plans for the universe are in any way _right_. However, as he already discussed with Dante, allowing Ren to ‘teach’ him would serve their own purposes just fine. For now, at least.

“It would be preferable if you agreed to learn from us willingly,” Ren continues. “Luke gave you an incredible gift, whether or not that was by design, but I recognize that it can be difficult to understand the finer intricacies of the mind under duress. That’s not to say this whole process will be a comfortable one, but it would benefit both of us if I had your consent.”

‘Consent’ is such a funny word in this context. Hux doubts Dante or any of the other students consented to anything the Knights of Ren had done to them, but he can see that an effort, on Ren’s part, had already been made to refrain from pressuring Hux in the worst way imaginable; he hadn’t once threatened Kirian. If Hux’s other self had someone’s child in his custody, he certainly wouldn’t have hesitated to lord that fact over them. Ren’s restraint is more admirable than his own, for once.

Thinking of Kirian, Hux decides to test Ren’s limits. “I want access to my son,” he says.

“You already have it,” Ren replies readily. “Captain Streif was adamant that seeing him would help to calm your nerves.”

Hux supposes he should’ve known Streif wouldn’t have granted such a request without first passing it by the Supreme Leader. Still, it surprises him that Ren had allowed it without overtly dangling that privilege in Hux’s face. He simply did it because he knew it needed to be done.

Briefly—quite briefly—Hux wonders if Ren isn’t capable of a smidgen of empathy after all.

Ren watches him for a moment, allowing Hux’s astonishment over his gesture to pass before he says, “As I understand it, the Staff Sergeant has a set schedule with your son, one she thinks he would benefit from if left uninterrupted. It will be up to her and Captain Streif to determine when you can visit him. Otherwise, I see no reason to keep you from him.”

Stunned as he is, Hux still doesn’t forget his manners. “…Thank you,” he says, hesitant. He doesn’t like the feeling of thanking Ren for anything, but gratitude is due when and where it is warranted.

A small nod from Ren and then the man is glancing around at the scenery, although he doesn’t look very interested or impressed in what he sees. “Did you meditate, like I told you?”

“No,” Hux replies, hardly knowing how he was supposed to with the conditions he’s been under. “But I did hallucinate. Constantly. Is there a difference between the two?”

Ren seems neither surprised nor disappointed with his admission. “In the beginning, not really.” A pause before his next question: “Did you visit your sanctuary?”

“Yes, or so I believe. It’s hard to tell what’s real and what’s not when you’ve been the dark for so long.”

“Then the treatment is working.” Ren toes at a moss-covered rock, turning it over gently to reveal a patch of dark, damp earth beneath it. “Consider this your next assignment: I want you to take one last look at this place and then forget about it.”

Hux blinks at him, perplexed. “What do you mean by ‘forget about it’?”

“If you retreat into your sanctuary, choose a different venue. I don’t care where, although somewhere new would be preferable.”

Ren was evidently taking this ‘fresh start’ angle quite seriously.

Hux takes a moment to stare at the grave markers, then he glances around at the greenery, listening to the rustle of leaves, feeling the breeze on his face. He wants to see the lake again, but he feels as though Ren drew him all the way out here just to deprive him of that. The sound of the water does something for him that he finds hard to describe.

Just as he hears the flutter of wings in the branches overhead, he blinks and is pulled from his sanctuary. He’s been returned to the training room, legs feeling a little stiff, as if he’d been standing with his knees braced for quite some time.

Janym and Dante are no longer resting. They are standing, facing one another, both breathing a little heavily, as if they had been sparring again. Seir is watching them, a little off to one side, his helmet tucked under his right arm as he evaluates them in silence.

“Jhoice,” Ren says from where he’s lurking in Hux’s periphery. Hux can hear the soft rustle of his cape as he then turns away and immediately stalks toward the door.

After a moment of hesitation, Dante nods respectfully toward Janym. Then he walks toward the door, head bowed, though he raises it briefly to spare Hux a quick glance. His eyes are dark and tired and broken.

Hux watches him disappear through the door, body tensing, fighting the urge to follow.

“Do you fight?”

The question is posed to him by Janym, who is now making her away across the room to a small weapons rack against the far wall. She grabs what looks like a staff as Seir sets his helmet down on the ground and shrugs off his cape. Hux spots the lightsaber on his belt before the man tugs it off to ignite it.

“Not as well as you,” Hux replies, hesitantly stepping forward, hoping neither one of them intends to throw him down right then and there. As a former officer, he had undergone the usual combat training, though it was nowhere near as rigorous as what their stormtroopers were put through. Finn had taught him a few additional moves over the years, though Hux doubts he has the skills to last long in a scrap against any one of the Knights of Ren, even if he would stoop to fight as dirty as his other self usually would.

“He will be taught in due time,” Seir says, alleviating Hux’s fears of an immediate beating. To Hux, he says, “Watch.”

Obeying, Hux plants his feet shoulder-width apart and clasps his hands together behind his back, settling into his usual, relaxed posture from his days in the Order. He watches as Janym chooses her weapon, a long electrostaff with hissing red bolts at either end. She gives it an experimental twirl over her left shoulder before she advances suddenly on Seir, bands of light colliding with a sharp bark of energy before bounding and rebounding, bleeding into an intricate dance.

They move with practiced ease, back and forth across the length of the room, each advancing and retreating in turn, though Janym is beginning to breathe heavily again before too long. Her fatigue is understandable, considering how she had only just been sparring with Dante, but she pushes through the match quite admirably, swinging her staff in short, sharp bursts, trying not to travel far in the hopes of conserving her energy. She aims high, clearly gearing for Seir’s head, though she keeps oddly close to her opponent for someone with a long-range weapon, often stepping in too close for either one of them to safely land a blow. There’s a fierceness to her style that reminds him remarkably of Ren’s, which was always heavy and a little unorthodox.

Though mesmerized with Janym’s performance, Hux is not blind to Seir’s form. He is likewise fluid and economical, though he moves less than Janym does between the sharp bursts of his attacks. Once Hux bothers to focus his attention entirely on him, it becomes abundantly clear that Seir is holding back, eyes trained intently on Janym’s legs, quietly evaluating her footwork.

Soon, Janym also seems to realize her mentor is not giving this fight his all. She powers down her electrostaff suddenly, deftly back-stepping to avoid a wide swing from her opponent. “What are your thoughts, Lord Seir?” she asks tersely, chest heaving as she sucks in her next breath of air.

Seir lowers his weapon and freezes for a moment, silent, expression neutral. Then he powers down his lightsaber and clips it to his belt. “You still fail to plant your left foot properly half the time. You would lose your balance on uneven ground.”

Hux can see the faint twitch of the muscle in Janym’s jaw before she bows her head stiffly and says, “I will endeavour to improve, sir.”

“See to it that you do.”

Just as stiffly, she returns her electrostaff to the rack. Hux can see the anger in her that Dante was referring to before. In some ways, it probably helps her to fit right in with the Knights, many of whom were reportedly as temperamental as Ren on their worst days; in others, her dissatisfaction introduces the possibility of being swayed, even if only in some small way, to abandon the notion of committing to this cult.

Hux knows he has a long way to go if he wants to pursue that avenue, but he tucks away the thought for a rainy day as Janym walks briskly past him to the door.

Still standing at ease, Hux doesn’t move until Seir has re-affixed his cape to his uniform and collected his helmet off the ground. “As is customary,” the other man says, “whenever you are not sparring, you should watch whoever is. Did you happen to learn anything from our match?”

“A little. In short, she reminds me of the Supreme Leader.”

“She is indeed passionate in combat.” There’s a hint of a smile on Seir’s lips. “Tell me, did you often watch our master fight when you were co-commanders?”

It occurs to Hux that Seir must think he watched Ren spar on a whim. Occasionally, Hux would check up on him through the security feed, but that was only to ensure Ren wasn’t destroying their equipment beyond repair. The brunt of his observations were made whenever Ren decided to accompany their ground troops in battle, and that was to ensure Ren had whatever backup he needed to get the job done. Even so, Hux can’t deny that there was something enthralling in watching the way Ren approached every enemy. There was an animalistic quality to his work that was both bizarre and exhilarating, though neither Hux nor his other self felt comfortable ever admitting that to anyone.

Taking a moment to consider his response, Hux finally settles on saying, “I suppose I did.”

Hux doesn’t know what Seir intends to do with this information—assuming he intends to do anything at all with it considering how quickly he moves on to the next topic of conversation: “Rumor has it that, as an officer, you were always armed with a monomolecular blade, one of your own design. Is that how you prefer to fight, in close quarters?”

He almost laughs at Seir’s choice of words. In close quarters? Certainly… Hux’s other self had either strangled or slit the throat of a number of his opponents, some of which lost their lives between the sheets, though usually because that was the only time they would allow themselves to become vulnerable enough for his efforts to succeed. The man didn’t care much for sex, but he absolutely enjoyed watching the orgasmic bliss on someone’s face melt away to horror, especially after all the time and effort he put into getting them to lower their guard in the first place.

“It was a necessity,” Hux explains. “To be honest, I prefer a blaster over anything else.”

“I think a set of vibroblades would suit you better. I will find a pair, though we won’t begin training you with a weapon for quite some time yet.”

Hux can already guess what aspect of his ‘training’ they want him to focus on for the time being. “…Do these sensory deprivation sessions have an end in sight?” he asks, truly weary at the thought of returning to the dark.

“Some minds respond better to our methods than others,” Seir replies. “You might not have noticed, but the barrier we spoke of earlier is weakening. Try to embrace the darkness and all that it’s doing for you. It’s helping you more than you know.”

Hux tries not to show how annoyed he is with that response, wondering how nobody in Ren’s cult realizes just how cliché they sound.

Seir makes no further comment other than to wave him toward the door. “We are finished for now. You will be escorted back to your cell.”

Reluctant, Hux watches as the Knight settles on the matted ground, legs carefully folded under him, as if preparing to meditate. As soon as Seir rests his hands against his thighs and closes his eyes, Hux finally turns away, slipping quietly out of the room to find six stormtroopers waiting for him.

He’s tucked seamlessly into their formation, two walking ahead of him to lead him down the winding corridors. There are fewer officers milling about now, suggesting that gamma-shift has finally begun, when the ship is run by a skeletal crew made up of the loners and anyone serving out an additional shift for disciplinary purposes.

Momentarily, he loses himself in thought, reflecting on his days as one of these ‘loners,’ scheming at the darkest hours of the proverbial night, doing whatever work needed to be done in the name of the Resistance. So lost is he in thought that he almost walks into the back of one of his guards when the troopers stop abruptly.

 _“Sir?”_ one of the stormtroopers asks, a hint of hesitation in his voice, addressing whomever is blocking their way.

Hux glances between the two guards in front of him at the officer who’s planted himself in the middle of the corridor. He immediately stiffens, apprehensive.

As is his wont, Rotan smiles at him in a mockery of good will and says, “I presume you’re free for that drink now, Councilman?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I'm, like, 65% decided on Hux's 'new' name. If anyone has a favorite, let me know. You might sway me yet.


	7. Ammunition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Happy Back to School-ness, if you're a student! If not (and if you are), here, tip back another dose of your poison of choice with me...

_“The haft of the arrow had been feathered with one of the eagle’s own plumes._

_We often give our enemies the means of our own destruction.”_

― Aesop

 

~*8*8*8*~

“Can you make it smaller?”

Hux smiled, gently tugging back his blueprints from Kaydel. Her hands were still somehow damp from the bath she had just given Kirian, who was now dozing off in his crib. He always fell fast asleep after a good soak, even if he didn’t particularly enjoy being wrangled into his pajamas. There was just something so preternaturally soothing about the water and the soap bubbles and the warm washcloth Kaydel often draped across his tiny golden head.

“Everyone’s a critic…” Hux sighed, flattening the sheet of paper against his chest. Kaydel would be leaving for another mission in a few days and had opted to run Kirian through his evening routine on her own while she was still there. To give her space, Hux had spent these empty moments at his little desk at the end of the hall, penning out the half-forgotten schematics from his earlier days in the engineering core. The Resistance didn’t have the credits to develop half of what he could conjure up for them, but, perhaps, someday they would find more benefactors interested in combating their secret enemy.

“Why would you want it smaller anyway?” Hux asked, eyeing the blaster, a tiny, snub-nosed pistol of a thing. “It’s practically microscopic as it is.”

“I’d like something that I could tuck under my braid,” she quipped, though he’s known her to stash a stiletto in her hair on occasion, having a penchant for boarding enemy ships, even when she’s supposed to remain on the Bridge.

“Then I will endeavour to design something more to your tastes,” he replied, amused, shuffling through the stack by his lamp in search of a clean scrap of paper. He could always use a challenge.

“What’s this?” Kaydel asked quietly, plucking a sheet from the middle as he shifted through it. Half of the front and the entirety of the back were covered in equations written in his overly slanted and crowded cursive, but there was a figure at the bottom that undoubtedly caught her attention, a simple armlet and the scribbled specifications for a very specialized weapon.

Hux stared at the drawing for moment, smiling. “That’s my monomolecular blade,” he said. He couldn’t quite remember when he’d last had the weapon in hand. Was it just before the incident on _Starkiller_? Perhaps. After he was shot, they stripped him down and tended to his injury. It had likely been burnt to a crisp with the rest of the base.

“It sounds fragile,” she said, brow furrowed in confused.

“If the entire blade was only a molecule wide, then it certainly would be, but only the cutting edge is that thin. Even so, few people have been able to produce a feasible weapon. In fact, there’s still an ongoing debate over what material would make the best monomolecular blade, as not all metals can be sharpened to such a degree, yet many substances that _can_ , such as certain types of glass, are naturally weak along their broad side.”

Kaydel smiled curiously at him as she asked, “Did you ever figure out a way to make it work?”

He reached over to tap the scribbled notes beside his design. “Yes, with this. It took me a while, because chemistry is certainly not my speciality, and I needed the help of a colleague, but I was able to make myself a formidable weapon in the end. In fact, it only broke once in all the years that I used it, and that was merely the release mechanism, not the blade itself.”

“Oooh, _fancy_ ,” she cooed with just enough faux awe to show that she was, in fact, very impressed indeed. “How come the First Order never bothered to mass produce this?”

“Because my other self hid many of our best ideas from our colleagues, including this. _Starkiller_ might have been designed to make us famous, but _this_ was designed to keep us safe. In any case, why would the First Order waste resources on producing a weapon that could easily be felled by something electric, such as a laser blade? A monomolecular blade is better suited to more covert operations.”

“Such as giving a rival a good poke in the kidneys, I take it?”

“Precisely.”

She set his notes down on the desk and then nodded her head toward the kitchen. “The babe’s asleep. Want to continue exchanging old war stories over a cup of tea?”

He was glad she had taken a liking to tarine tea. It helped to justify the twenty or so packs of dried leaves he stuffed into the kitchen cupboard when she was away last.

“I would be delighted to have a drink with you,” he said, rising from his seat, letting her slip her small, warm hand into his own as they retired for the evening.

~***~

“I would be delighted to have a drink with you,” he says.

Despite his apprehension, he feels the cold burn of enmity worming its way up from the pit of his stomach into his throat. He wants to put his fist through the too-white cut of Rotan’s perfect teeth, a compulsion that has his mouth running well ahead of his brain as he accepts the invitation. Hux is aware, of course, that this is a trap. Rotan intends to interrogate him before anyone can intercept him, yet Hux still wants a moment alone with him, even if only to tease out a little about what makes this peculiar creature tick.

“Splendid!” Rotan exclaims, just as one of the stormtroopers rouses herself from her stupor and says, _“We were instructed by Captain Streif to return the prisoner to his cell by 0100 hours.”_

Unfazed by the interruption, Rotan tugs up the left cuff of his uniform jacket and glances down at a small timepiece strapped to the inside of his wrist. His smile doesn’t waver. “And you shall, but we have time yet before then.”

_“Sir—”_

“Come along.”

Rotan waits for no further acts of insubordination, turning down the long corridor, raising his hand above his shoulder to wave them forward. There’s a split-second of hesitation from Hux’s entourage before they collectively lurch after him, but Hux knows without looking that the last two stormtroopers behind him have peeled off to find Streif or someone else capable of wrangling Rotan under control. For now, the others know to appease their commanding officer, so they march on in unison to whatever destination Rotan has in mind for them.

They don’t travel far. Rotan likely knew he was going to be ratted out before he decided to pounce on them today and pre-emptively chose a nearby office, into which he ushers only Hux, despite the protestation of his guards. There, he gestures Hux toward a chair set before the wide desk and turns to a small shelf in the corner. He pulls a decanter from it and two glasses. Setting these down on the desk, he pours them each a finger of what Hux can only assume is whiskey.

Hux waits until Rotan takes a drink before he sips his own. He hasn’t really indulged in alcohol since Kirian was born, beyond the occasional glass of wine at dinner. Even then, he drank sparingly. He had forgotten how unpleasant the burn of something a little stronger could be at the back of his throat.

“Not a man of spirits, are you?” Rotan observes, leaning back against the desk, looking down on Hux, still smiling.

“I don’t have much of a reason to drink,” Hux replies, holding his glass on his lap. He has no interest in finishing it.

“A pity.” Rotan takes another pull, pausing to savor it before he swallows. The hesitation gives him the opportunity to switch gears. “For a prisoner, Councilman, you’re a remarkably difficult person to get a hold of.”

“My apologies.”

“Apology accepted, but you’re hardly the one who should be apologizing.” He polishes off his drink in an impressive tilt and sets the glass down on the desk—immediately, he then fishes into his concealed breast pocket for a cig. To the best of Hux’s recollection, smoking isn’t allowed aboard a ship in the First Order, but Rotan demonstrates just what he thinks of that rule as he casually lights it up.

“You’re a man of many vices,” Hux murmurs, hit by the bittersweet smell of whatever it is Rotan is burning. He doesn’t smoke himself, but he knows enough people who do to recognize when something is cheap, almost medicinal. Such cigs were always popular among junior officers on shore leave after spending months on end in a metal trap with recycled air, a little something to kill the ever-present dry sensation at the back of their throats, as ironic as that sounded.

“I try to binge when I can,” Rotan says. “The bigger offenses always overshadow the lesser ones. It lightens the load whenever I’m expected to be brought to task for something—but enough about _me_. We’re here to talk about you, are we not?”

“Are we?” Hux asks with a pointed note of innocence and politeness. “I would hate to waste your time. As the paperwork will show—assuming, of course, the Supreme Leader now deigns to fill out paperwork—I’ve already been interrogated. He’s run my mind through its paces and seen all that there is to see.”

Rotan sucks on the end of his stick and then exhales out a small puff of smoke, stiff shoulders relaxing as he watches it curl toward the ceiling, slowly dissipating. Clearing his throat, he says, “He fills out paperwork. When it suits him. From what I could glean of it, you know nothing about the whereabouts of your fellow Resistance members _or_ the girl from Jakku _or_ General Organa. In fact, to all outside appearances, you are a thoroughly useless asset.”

“You’re not satisfied with his analysis?”

“No,” he says, blunt. “You’re an engineer. If he had consulted with me before flaying your mind open, I would have suggested he look for intel on any weapons you could be developing. After all, just because the Resistance hasn’t been sharing sensitive information with _you_ doesn’t mean you haven’t been sharing information with _them_.”

“Well, if it puts your mind at ease, nobody is making another _Death star_ or _Starkiller_ base. The Resistance doesn’t share your appetite for intergalactic genocide.”

After another drag from his cig, this one longer, truly savoring it, Rotan says, “I’ve seen your file. You developed a number of weapons for the First Order, both large and small. You even contributed to the _Silencer’s_ design. Who knows how you’ve improved the enemy’s arsenal?”

“Is _that_ what this is all about then? You’re worried I’ve been weaponizing the Resistance?”

“Partially.”

Hux shifts in his seat, causally crossing one leg over the other. He would like to know what Rotan’s game is already. The clock is ticking. “For an interrogator, you sure don’t ask a lot of straightforward questions.”

“Who said this was an interrogation? We’re just two men getting to know each other a little better.”

Finally, Rotan tires of looming over him and walks around the desk, settling comfortably into whoever’s seat he’s stolen. “Do you know how thoroughly you’ve been brainwashed?” he asks after a beat.

“To the best of my knowledge, I haven’t been brainwashed.”

“The moment we discovered your whereabouts on Talos Prime, I began building a profile on you.” Another suck, another swell of smoke. “You could almost say I’ve gotten to know the ‘new’ you quite intimately. Nothing matches up well with what we know about you before your abduction; I have several character testimonials of a truly devious man conducting the sort of business the Resistance wouldn’t normally sanction, even for an undercover agent. When I hold this man up to the light against the other, I find their similarities are few and far between.”

“And?” Hux asks, tiring quickly of this old narrative. “What does it matter if I _have_ been brainwashed?”

“Because there’s a painfully simple solution to correcting your mental state, but the Supreme Leader won’t even consider it at the moment.” Rotan taps his cig with his forefinger, depositing ash on the polished black desktop. He must really hate whoever uses this office. “The sooner I figure out why that is, the sooner I can talk a little sense into him and begin my work in earnest. Thus, we _now_ begin the real interrogation…” He squints at Hux momentarily, conjuring up his first question. Eventually, he says, “Tell me, have you already had his dick in you?”

Even knowing that he should’ve expected such a low blow, Hux can’t help but feel insulted. “It’s good to see such an honourable officer as yourself _lapping_ _up_ every malicious rumor from anyone that ever envied my rank.”

“Don’t think me so simple. However, while we’re on the subject, let’s not pretend that a number of your old enemies weren’t found stark naked and bled like a stuck pig. It doesn’t take anyone too imaginative to figure out what likely happened there.” There’s a small smile from Rotan, either because he enjoys the mental image this paints or because he could almost approve of Hux’s methodology himself. “Rather, I know the Supreme Leader’s magic relies heavily on his ‘passions’. I’ve also heard from enough eye-witnesses to know how long and hard he used to stare at you when you were co-commanders or how often he would try to monopolize your time. Since he’s never dragged you across the Bridge by your throat, I can only imagine he was interested in venting his frustrations with you in a more beastly manner.”

Hux almost laughs. How funny it would be if they all knew that Ren had merely been contemplating the likelihood of Hux’s assistance in orchestrating Snoke’s demise. Then again, there _was_ a touch of infatuation in Ren’s behaviour, at least when he learned of Hux’s duplicity, but it still surprises Hux that anyone could imagine that tension as being purely sexual.

Never one to allow himself to be caught on his back foot, Hux briefly entertains an interesting thought and finally puts a spin of his own on the conversation. “Speaking of throats, why don’t you show me yours?”

There’s the briefest flicker of confusion across Rotan’s face before the other man flashes him another coy smile. “Why? You want another dick in you? I would be happy to accommodate you, Councilman, but now is hardly the time.”

“You’re a sadist, so I imagine you’re hardly interested in satisfying anyone’s needs but your own. In fact—” Hux finally sets his glass down on the desk, pointing an accusatory finger at the collar of Rotan’s perfectly starched uniform, “—I would even go so far as to say you’re really a sadomasochist, one who doesn’t understand the danger he’s been putting himself in by continually pushing the Supreme Leader’s buttons but enjoys his beatings all the same. Now, be a good boy and pop your collar open for me. It’s the only way you’re going to convince me that he hasn’t been reprimanding you for all the little liberties you’ve been taking since we met.”

The command ignites something in Rotan’s eyes. Anger, certainly. Something a little more than that, too, but Hux can already see the way the gears are turning inside Rotan’s head as he contemplates how to turn this indignity to his favor. Even as he searches for an out, he slowly acquiesces by thumbing open the top two hooks of his uniform and tugging the left collar flap down a little—and there, of course, is the purpling bruise Hux knew he would find, angry and glorious, just one of many that undoubtedly litter Rotan’s throat.

Rotan is going to die.

Ren has a purpose for him, that much Hux knows, but Rotan will outlive his usefulness eventually. There isn’t a man or woman in the First Order who’s had Ren’s hand around their throat, real or imaginary, and lived long enough to see their next birthday. The axe, once hefted, will inevitably fall.

As Rotan hooks his collar shut again, Hux continues. “You want the First Order to succeed—not, I think, because you truly believe in its doctrines, but because it’s elevated you to a position where you finally get to indulge in your little ‘vices’ however you see fit. Your father was the same way. He pushed the envelope whenever he could. But now the Supreme Leader isn’t letting you have free rein anymore, and you’re scared that this is the new status quo. As you should be.”

Despite the warning, Rotan still looks thoroughly pissed at him. “Am I to believe you’re telling this to me out of concern for my wellbeing, Councilman? How _kind_ …”

“You shouldn’t trust him.”

“You shouldn’t trust anyone either, least of your own _‘people.’_ Sooner or later, they’ll realize I’m right, and then I’ll sort you out the proper way.”

“I wager you’ll be dead before it gets to that.”

Rotan stares at him quietly then, intently, sucking on his cancer stick. There’s something a little dead in his eyes, pupils blown wide, like a creature that’s scented blood in the water. And he’s smiling, of course, with that subtle tilt of hatred and excitement, eager to show off his teeth and all the other instruments of his perverse trade.

Hux suddenly gets the feeling that Rotan wants to kill him right then and there.

Before he can truly contemplate the likelihood of that terrifying thought coming to fruition, there’s a hiss from the door as it slides open behind him, accompanied by a sharp bark of, “Get the _kark_ out of my chair!”

“Captain,” Rotan practically purrs, not moving, the darkness retreating beneath the veil of his cool façade.

Streif stomps over to his desk, completely ignoring Hux for the moment as he pulls up the decanter by the throat to check how much of his personal stash his colleague bothered to leave behind. “You miserable little _cur_ —you have your own bloody office to abuse!”

“Yours was closer,” Rotan says, finally rising from his seat when he spots someone else standing in the doorway. He salutes them, suddenly looking a touch more serious. “General.”

Hux rises too, turning to see Vehr, hands folded behind her back, expression cold and stormy. “Captain Streif,” she says, her voice deceptively calm, “Would you mind if I borrowed your office for a moment?”

“Not at all, ma’am.”

“Thank you. Councilman, I believe it’s time you returned to your cell.”

Hux hardly has any complasints about the interruption, although he almost wishes he could stay long enough hear whatever verbal lashing Rotan was about to be subjected to. It would be nice to see someone else put the little worm in his place.

He waits until Vehr’s cleared the doorway before he sees himself out, stormtroopers waiting for him in the corridor. To his surprise, Streif quickly falls in line with them as they head off, waving their entourage back a few steps irritably. Hux can practically still see the steam coming out of his ears when he asks, “That louse didn’t touch you, did he?”

Sagely, Hux decides not to mention Rotan’s more salacious comments or the dark look in his eyes near the end of their little chat. Rotan certainly wanted to ‘touch’ him, albeit in a less than pleasant manner, and he just might have done so if the cavalry hadn’t arrived when they did.

“No,” Hux says, settling on an easy answer. Streif doesn’t need to know the particulars. He’s already aware of what a psychopath his colleague is. “He just offered to de-brainwash me.”

“The General will set him straight for pulling this little stunt,” Streif replies, though with the infliction of someone who thinks that won’t be entirely true. He fidgets with the cuffs of his uniform, clearly still agitated, and then abruptly whispers, “I hate him.”

From what Hux can see, the general consensus seems to be that everyone hates Rotan. He imagines that everyone is just so tired of ranting about him that Streif was hoping to find someone new he could vent to. Honestly, Hux doesn’t mind. “As do I,” he says.

“He’s so full of himself.”

“And has little sense of restraint.”

Streif gives him an appreciative side-glance, finally seeming to relax, knowing he’s in good company. “To be honest, I’m surprised you didn’t lash out at him in there. You gave a few of our troopers a good thrashing when you were brought aboard. Why didn’t you give him the same what-for?”

Why? Because Hux wants to remain in Ren’s good graces, so to speak, even if it means refraining from throttling his little attack dog, and because he doesn’t believe violence is the answer to everything. Though he did lash out before, that was because he let his emotions get the better of him. He won’t—he _can’t_ allow that to happen again, at least outside the Knights’ supervision. Whatever Ren happens to demand of him in his training, he will still have to find a more productive way of utilizing his emotions.

Of course, Hux doesn’t want to share any of that with Streif. Instead, he glances back at the stormtroopers, who are still politely trailing quite a few paces behind them, and says, “If I’m really such a hazard to everyone’s health, it’s a wonder you aren’t afraid of me.”

“I’ve read your character report,” Streif replies. “You’re only considered a danger when provoked. But Rotan was trying to provoke you, was he not? The real wonder is that you didn’t throttle him when you had the chance.”

“To be honest, today’s little stunt wasn’t anywhere near as a stupid as the one he pulled with my son. He’s not worth the energy.”

“I see.”

“Speaking of which…when will I be able to see him again?” Unless he was daydreaming, he distinctly remembers Ren informing him that he was welcome to visit his son, at least when Wane and Streif allowed it. That arrangement could change at any moment, depending on the state of Ren’s benevolence; capitalizing on this opportunity now, before it could be stolen away from him, is a real no-brainer.

“As soon as I can arrange it,” Streif replies, which, while not a definite answer, sounds about as sincere a promise as Hux can hope to get from anyone around here. “No offence, but we’ve been instructed to keep you in your cell for so many cycles before your next release. But I assure you, your son will be waiting for you.”

The thought of seeing Kirian again during his next break makes him feel lighter. He’ll just focus on that while he’s working his way through the darkness. His only hope is that Kirian is still holding up alright.

His optimism must show, because Streif shakes his head a little, as if in disbelief, and says, “You’re very fond of your child.”

“I am. Do you have children, Captain?”

“Two.” Hux is expecting Streif to go on a lecture about every officer’s reproductive duties to the First Order and the glory that the future generations will behold once the universe is well under their heel. Instead, Streif’s brow furrows in quiet contemplation before he says, “I miss them.”

Most officers would never admit to that. In fact, most officers wouldn’t feel that way at all. The vast majority would be ‘ _proud_ ’ of their offspring, at least if they were able to keep their noses clean at the academy, but their love—of lack thereof—was never openly discussed. After all, what was the use of nurturing an attachment with future cannon fodder or a potential rival in the ranks? Maybe Brendol had it right all along to be wary of his own son.

“Are they at the academy?” Hux asks. Streif has at least a decade on him; his children could already be well on their way to becoming little gears in the great murder machine.

“Not yet,” Streif replies, seemingly lost in thought. “Too young.” Conscious of the age difference between them, he adds, “I married later in life. My wife is not an officer. She lives planet-side with the children while I...” he waves his hand vaguely in front of himself, “…do this.”

Hux mulls over that information quietly.

He wonders if Streif intends his children to join the academy at all.

After all, Finn obviously couldn’t be the only outlier in the First Order.

A look around informs Hux that they are close to his cell. He takes this final opportunity to say, “Can you steer Rotan clear of my son?”

“No, but Wane will.” There’s a smile at the corner of Streif’s lips, as if he has a good reason to have every confidence in her. “She has considerable experience with the uneducated and the unruly, not limited only to the children in her care. If he sets a toe out of line into her domain, she will happily shoot first and ask questions later.”

It sounds as though Streif wishes Rotan would almost try. Hux can’t deny how delightful it would be to finally have the intelligence officer out of his hair. The more explosive his exit, the better.

~***~

“This is new.”

“It’s old, actually. But not to you, I suppose...”

Still marveling at the realness of it all, Dante runs his fingers across one of the old wooden desks by the door, leaving a trail in the dust. Small motes flutter in the air, illuminated by the bands of sunlight streaming in through the panelled windows. It’s a little musky in here. Smells like old books, though they rarely used paper-made literary tools when he was at the academy. The scent seemed to be inherent of old classrooms like this.

When he was a student, they had only a few classes in here. Every cadet was expected to find their own learning materials and make do with that on their own time, usually holed up in their bunk. However, they still wrote a number of exams in here and occasionally used the podium to practice public speaking. That had always been one of his other self’s favorite topics, standing there, demanding the attention of his peers, weaving their equally young and impressionable minds ever deeper into his own psychosis with words alone. It was amusing to him how a little change in intonation or the slightest shift in posture could catch the eye and hold it indefinitely.

“ _That_ certainly looks old,” Dante says, finally turning around to face him, pointing an accusatory finger at Hux’s choice in clothes

Hux is wearing his uniform—the one he wore as a Lieutenant, complete with his cap and gloves, everything starched and ironed to perfection. Hux has a feeling Ren intends to have him engage in an ever-increasing series of uncomfortable situations, so he thought he would revisit the idea of wearing a uniform again before Ren makes him.

“It is,” he concedes, “and irrelevant.” He gives a limp wave at the rest of the room, taking it all in from where he’s perched himself on the instructor’s desk at the front. “Ren told me to choose a different venue for our future meetings.” Technically, Ren said somewhere ‘new,’ but Hux didn’t want to take him anywhere in Talos. The memories of his new home are still precious to him; he would like to keep them away from Ren as long as possible. “…You look oddly pleased.”

“I know this isn’t as charming as your little lakeside beach,” Dante admits, still admiring the scenery, “but I haven’t been planet-side since I was abducted. It’s still nice to see something different.”

Hux makes a mental note to, perhaps, bring his companion somewhere scenic in Talos the next time they meet. Even if he doesn’t want to share the memories of his new home with Ren, that doesn’t mean he can’t do a favour for an old friend.

“How have you been?” Hux asks, hopping off the desk, taking a moment to brush the dust off the back of his thighs. “You don’t look like much of zombie anymore.”

The dark rings under Dante’s eyes are gone now and his dark hair is less matted, as if he’d had half a care to run a comb through it recently. “I’ve been making real headway with Janym, so I’ve been given a reprieve from the sleep deprivation sessions. Not indefinitely, but I’ll take it.”

“It surprises me that they’ve taken different approaches in ‘expanding’ our mental abilities. Why did they throw me in the dark?”

“That’s stage one,” Dante replies, pulling out the chair behind the nearest desk and settling into the seat. “They threw me in the dark pretty soon after they got their hands on me. Sleep deprivation is what follows next, if you’re still having trouble with a particular lesson. It expands the mind a little more than a lack of stimuli does. It’s a horrible situation to find yourself in, of course, but it certainly does the trick.”

Hux supresses a shudder. As much as he hates spending hours on end in the dark, he would take it any day over Dante’s personal hell.

Pulling out the chair ahead of Dante’s desk, Hux spins it around and sits down. “The last time I saw you, Ren pulled you out of the class. What was that about?”

“Just a regular one-on-one lesson,” Dante says. “He tries to take the time to practice with everyone when he can find the time. Odd as this might seem, I think he enjoys being a teacher, although I suppose that goes well with his ego. He wants to put a little of himself into each of his students.”

Hux snorts at his choice in words.

Dante smirks at him, confused. “What?”

“Nothing,” he says, although his answer is a knee-jerk response. Really, he should try to keep Dante in the loop, even with regards to his more personal matters. “I’m sorry…What I meant to say is that Captain Rotan finally cornered me today for a private conversation. He seems to have guessed how far Ren and I took our relationship when we were on better terms.”

“Are you sure he guessed? He’s the Supreme Leader’s precious Force-null attack dog. They’ve probably had a number of private conversations between themselves.”

“Ren’s lashed out at him for his insubordination,” Hux replies. “At least once. I saw the bruises. I won’t argue against his importance to Ren’s work, but I don’t believe Ren would share such sensitive information with him, at least about himself.”

“That’s good to know.” There’s a twitch at the corner of Dante’s lips, though he fights it back down, composing himself. “Speaking of which…how far _did_ the two of you take your relationship? I know Kylo Ren is obsessed with you in a way that isn’t exactly healthy, but I’ve never been able to delve too deeply into his mind.”

While it still hurts Hux to think of how close he might’ve come to finding the humanity in Ren when they were so vulnerable together, he’s not ashamed of what they did—disappointed, certainly, because he should’ve known better, but sex, like so many other things in the universe, was usually just a means to an end for him, with the exception of what he felt he shared with his wife.

Leaning forward against the desk, elbows braced against the wood, handles folded together under his chin, Hux says, “We slept together, though for different reasons. I was hoping a little affection would sway him from the dark side. I was wrong.”

“What was his reason?”

Every time Hux thought he had an answer to that question, it curled over and into itself, slipping away into murkier waters. Ren claimed to want love and respect, but he didn’t seem as willing to return either. He needed an ally, but he found an alternative route to kill Snoke in almost record time. He yearned for power, but he was already the most powerful man alive. Nothing that Ren desired was out of reach.   

“Damned if I know,” Hux sighs.

“Do you think he’s beyond redemption, still undeserving of love?”

This question catches Hux by surprise. “After everything he and his Knights have done to you, don’t you?”

Eyes downcast, his gaze fixed on the desktop between them, Dante gives Hux a little half-shrug. His reluctance to say otherwise is telling, but Hux knows he shouldn’t be surprised. Dante was soft. Not necessarily _weak_ , but definitely soft. Even Ren couldn’t help by remark on his friendly demeaner. If Dante really thought every man was his brother and every woman was his sister, he was probably of a very forgiving disposition. Top that off with how long he’s been at the Knights’ mercy, force-fed their philosophies, and it was really no wonder the man was hesitant to condemn his captors indefinitely.

Hux would have to keep this in mind when focusing on their escape plan further down the road, should his companion falter. There was a time and a place to be soft. Here and now was not one of them.

“I think Luke would’ve liked you,” Hux sighs. Luke was soft, too, in his own way. Although, where would Hux be now if Luke hadn’t been so forgiving of the enemy Lieutenant he found dying on his backwater planet? He rubs his forehead above his right brow. Perhaps he was being too unkind. Dante wanted to get out of here as much as he did. He shouldn’t doubt his only ally so easily.

Dante finally glances up at him, straightening in his chair. Then he reaches forward, resting his hands palm-side up on the desk between them, wordlessly inviting Hux to take them. “Let’s get down to business, shall we?”

“And what is today’s business?” he asks, resting his own hands palm-down on top of Dante’s. “Did you happen to find out where the _Revenant_ is going?”

“Does B1-09H1J4 ring any bells to you?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“It’s apparently our next stop,” Dante explains, “though if it’s a moon or a planet or an empty block of space, I don’t know—or how many jumps away we are from it. We might be there and gone again tomorrow. Our final destination is still a mystery.”

“Organa should be able to make do with that, assuming we’re able to speak with her soon. Keep your ear to the ground in the meantime. Now—” Hux gives his hands a gentle squeeze, “what’s this?”

“This—” Dante gives him a gentle squeeze back “—is a little lesson in mind-reading.”

“Is this the same process you exercised with your friend, Janym?”

“A revised version, yes.”

“What do you need me to do?”

“Relax.” Dante offers him a warm smile. “I’ll pull you into my mind myself, but then I’m going to give you the freedom to roam around a little, get a feeling for whatever thoughts or memories you want to pursue.”

“You make it sound so easy.”

“Getting into someone else’s brain is the hard part, but I’m going to do the heavy lifting for you today. Once you’re comfortable with navigating the mind, we’ll move on to the next stage.”

As much as he hates how much of a mess the Force has made his life, Hux is mildly excited to try this technique out. He would _love_ to pick Rotan’s brain someday down the line. The little cretin couldn’t be trusted, even under Ren’s watchful eyes.

“Alright.” Hux shifts a little in his seat, trying to get comfortable. Should he close his eyes? Dante has closed his. “How do I—

 

— _Meri?”_

_There’s an eleven-year-old girl sitting in a tree a good twenty feet above a winding dirt road, relatively well-hidden in the leaves. Hux— **Dante** can only see her because he knows what he’s looking for. Even in her dark green jumper and grey slacks, he can make out her small figure perched on the second largest bough from the top. His eyes zero in on the soft glint of her telescope as she tries to spy on the small town across the lilac field stretched out between them._

_“You want to come up?” she asks, lowering the telescope. There’s a pile of rope on her lap to assist her with potential guests; Dante, she has longed since learned, has next to no upper body strength._

_“Yeah,” he says, “but it’s dinner. Mom told me to come get you.”_

_“Are we having her famous casserole tonight?”_

_“…Yeah.”_

_Merinla makes a soft gagging noise. “I’ll pass.”_

_“She’ll send dad next if I come back empty-handed.”_

_“But I **hate** her casserole…” _

_“Yeah, me too, but neither one of us can cook any better.”_

_There’s a snort of laughter from Meri, because it’s not as though they haven’t tried to whip up something on their own before, disastrous as their attempts have been. Sooner or later, someone under their roof is bound learn to cook, and when that happens, it will be the most glorious day of their little lives._

_After a short stretch of silence, Meri clears her throat and says, “Dante, can I tell you a—_

_—secret?”_

_Ellan stands in the doorway to her bedroom and tries to rub the sleep from her eyes. She’s upset about the ungodly hour but also a little afraid. She knows Dante wouldn’t wake her in the middle of the night without a good reason._

_And it **is** a good reason. _

_The voices are back._

_He thought he was going crazy the other day when he heard them, but they faded out a little in the evening, enough so that he could finally fall asleep. He was startled awake again a few minutes ago by a cacophony of noise, one man speaking over himself inside Dante’s head, repeating the same horrible words. He sounded so very, **very** angry._

_“Yeah, sure,” Ellan yawns, leaning against the doorframe with her arms crossed, trying to look relaxed when she feels anything but. Dante can hear her voice inside his head, too, the one that’s alarmed by how frightened out her little brother looks. “You want me to keep a secret about what?”_

_“About how I really know there’s a man outside who’s trying to get into the house.”_

_That wakes Ellan right up. She blinks down at him in surprise. “What— **where** outside? Is he at the front or the back?”_

_“I don’t know yet.”_

_“And why the hell does he want to get inside **our** house?”_

_Dante swallows, hard. “He wants—_

_—to help you,” Seir says._

_Stiffly, Dante rolls onto his other side on the mat that serves as his bed. Its soft, enough so that he can actually get a good sleep out of it, but that’s the only thing he’s got going for him right now. He’s so tired he could cry._

_He doesn’t know how long they’ve kept him awake. Days, maybe? It somehow feels longer than that. More like weeks, but he knows that can’t be true. Less than two weeks of sleep can kill you, can’t it? He started hallucinating after the first few days, but he doesn’t think he’s so far gone that he can no longer tell the passage of time._

_“Please,” he says, voice barely a whisper. “I can’t do it. This isn’t helping. **Please** —”_

_“But you **can** ,” Seir assures him. He’s sitting on the floor beside Dante, mask off, looking as insufferably cool and composed as ever. Whether he’s real or just another hallucination remains to be seen. “Moving an object with the mind is one of the most basic—”_

_Dante literally covers his ears with his hands and closes his eyes shut tight. He’s tired of hearing this. He’s so angry. Fuck Stolas. Really— **fuck him**. Dante wouldn’t be here right now if it weren’t for him._

_Suddenly, he can hear laughter, the kind that penetrates his skull, all the way to the back of his mind. Then hears Seir say, “Anger—that’s good. Try to hold that energy inside yourself.”_

_Instead, Dante petulantly lets it all out with a—_

_—screaming migraine._

_“I think I hate space travel.”_

_Reza doesn’t bother looking up from where she’s curled up with a good book by the front bay window. “You’re the one who wanted to be a liaison for the Doltarian tribes. Aren’t there, like, thirty-odd planets in their system?”_

_“I’ll only be the liaison for three,” he replies, “for now, anyway…Do you think I’m cut out for this kind work?”_

_She flashes him one of her toothy grins. “You like people, and you like investigating different cultures. I think you’re the best man for the job.”_

_“Thanks.”_

_“You’ll see. Once you get your feet under you, you’ll shine.”_

_He has a feeling he’ll be homesick a lot. He was born and raised on Gammit. He **does** happen to like people, even when he doesn’t completely understand them, and his mental ‘quirk’ has helped him connect with even the most acrimonious folk, but his skills as a mind reader and people-pleaser won’t help him until he at least learns the various tribal dialects. He’s also a shit pilot. He still has so much work ahead of him if he wants to succeed._

_“I guess,” he sighs. “Honestly, I don’t know why I’m so—_

_—afraid. Would you believe me if I told you I don’t want you to fear me?”_

_Sitting across the floor from Kylo Ren—his Supreme Leader and ‘master’, his captor and caretaker all rolled up into one—Dante looks at him and, without an ounce of his usual humour, bluntly says. “No.”_

_There’s a curious smile at the corner of his master’s lips as the other man lights the incense in the small pot between them. It’s dark in his private chambers. And quiet. The candlelight pulls the shadows into sharp focus, Kylo’s towering high above them against the far wall._

_Dante hates the incense. It smells godawful, and he’s already nauseated as it is. In fact, he can feel another fever coming on, a frantic heat that’s seized him on several occasions already since he began his life sentence on this ship. It’s because he’s weak, both mentally and physically. No point denying it. His body buckles too easily to the stress._

_“I don’t,” Kylo replies, resting his hands on his thighs as he returns his attention to his pupil. His eyes, as always, soak in the meager light, twin voids that drink everything in and give nothing in return. “I know what we’re doing hurts you, but that is the nature of any castration. We re cutting away what’s weak and useless to purify your connection to the Force, to allow you to thrive.”_

_“With all due respect,” Dante says, “I think you— **all** of you—just get off on the fact that it hurts. It’s one of the few ways you can truly feel powerful, inflicting pain on other people and then relieving them of it.”_

_Seir would’ve smacked him for backtalking the Supreme Leader if he’d been around, but Kylo Ren is remarkably open to listening to his students’ frustrations, at least in private. As such, Dante’s remark only earns him another small smile, the kind that says he doesn’t care what anyone thinks, because he knows he’s still going to get what he wants. And he’s probably right. There isn’t a thing anyone can do to stop him. Even Seir doesn’t hold a candle to what their Supreme Leader can do._

_Kylo shakes his head. “Despite what you think, I would much rather this whole process be as painless as possible. I want you—I want **all** our brethren to feel powerful. It’s a wonder that you continue to resist, even with all you’ve already accomplished under our guidance.”_

_“What’s the point of having any kind of power if you can never use it the way you want?”_

_The Knights of Ren were all about assimilation. That was something they shared with the rest of the First Order, their deep-seated hatred of diversity and their overwhelming need to confirm the universe to their will. It was the complete opposite of what Dante wanted. Diversity was the truest beauty of the universe, like a stained-glass window, its many multi-coloured shards wedged together into one truly unified form._

_“Those who’ve accepted our offer fully would hardly complain.”_

_They must be deluded. Or hypnotized by Seir, which he knows has happened to a number of people already. Dante still shudders at the thought of the Praetorian Guard, who are eternally tangled in Kylo’s web. Dante’s tried poking around inside their minds before, just to see what the damage looked like following Rotan’s inhumane procedure. They would seem normal, if not for the second voice inside their head, a steady hiss of indiscernible words and noises that would rise to an ungodly furor whenever they thought about doing something Dante assumed they weren’t supposed to. Any telepath would know something was off about them in an instant. The craziest thing about it, though, was that he got the feeling the guards didn’t themselves think they were hypnotized. They simply couldn’t dwell on the matter, because they were literally incapable of doing so._

_Dante didn’t want that. Even if he could be blissfully unaware of his changed frame of mind, he didn’t want to lose what made him… **him**._

_Angry, he asks, “If you could cut away what’s still ‘weak and useless’ about yourself, would you?”_

_For once, Kylo looks marginally confused, as if he genuinely believed he was some great, unblemished being. “I’ve already had my trial by fire, long before you came along, my friend. There is nothing left of my old self to purge.”_

_“Really?” He feels bitter, all the way down to his very core. Rarely does he feel this vitriolic. “You’re pretty good at keeping me out of your head, but I still catch the occasional flash of copper and green. Are you **sure** you aren’t still tangled up in your past?”_

_Dante knows he’s struck a nerve, because there’s finally a spark in those dead eyes. Kylo treasures this little obsession of his. It’s like some holy thing, too sacred to talk about—unless Kylo brings it up in conversation, of course, because Dante’s already been grilled about ‘Kilian Ko Connix’, the First Order’s missing Grand Marshal, and their run-in with Stolas Agyp. Never has he encountered someone so possessed of the need to dominate another human being, and that’s considering the plethora of lunatics he’s met over the years._

_He knows he’s in real trouble now, but the incense has finally ensnared him, the room is spinning, and the shadows are dancing maniacally all around them. He opens his mouth and laughs. He laughs and he laughs and he laughs until—_

_—he can’t breathe. He can’t breathe, and he’s going to die. He’s going to die. Going to die going to diegoingtodiegoingtoDIE—_

_“Do something!” Janym gasps, standing not ten feet away from him, almost buckling under the same ungodly pressure. How she’s still on her feet, he doesn’t know. He’s flat on his back and not going anywhere fast. It feels like someone parked a V-wing on his chest. His brain can’t get enough oxygen to figure out what he’s supposed to be doing here._

_Jhye, the poor fool, he-who-knows-not-what-he-does, is so red in the face that he looks like some kind of vegetable. The veins are popping on his forehead and the muscles of his bulging arms. If anyone could tear the universe in half, it would be him. Oh god, it would be him._

_Dante knows Jhye doesn’t want to hurt them. Janym knows that too. But here they are, locked in this hellish tableau, and all Dante can think about is how badly he doesn’t want to die._

_He doesn’t want to die._

_Jhye’s eyes connect with his for a moment. The hulking man isn’t lucid. Dante doesn’t know if that makes matters better or worse._

_“Stop,” Dante says with what amounts to his last breath._

_And—_

—this is a suitable place, I think, to stop and see how you’re doing.”

It’s a good thing Dante is holding his hands, because Hux can’t tell which way is up right now. Gravity’s taken a bit of a vacation for him. As such, he’s suddenly leaning so far to the left, he just about falls out of his chair. “I want—what—I—”

“Give it a minute,” Dante says. “The dizziness and confusion will pass.”

Hux opens his mouth to say something and then smartly snaps it shut again. He can barely string together a coherent sentence inside his mind. There’s no point subjecting Dante to his blathering while his brain re-enters orbit.

The dizziness and confusion do indeed pass, at which point Hux slowly withdraws his hands onto his lap. He’s not accustomed to clinging to other people for support, at least physically. “I don’t understand what just happened,” he says. “I mean, I understood each memory individually, but who was navigating us? Was that really me, or was that you?”

“Kind of both of us, actually. Any time I felt a nudge of curiosity from you, I loaded you into the next memory.”

“That was…incredible.”

Dante smiles at him in appreciation, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed. He looks proud of himself, as he should be.

“Just wait until you see what we can do once you _really_ get a hang of things,” Dante beams.

“I have no doubt it will be as equally amazing,” Hux says, shifting in his seat. He takes a deep breath, still a mite dizzy from the trip. “Which one of us decided to start with that first memory? Was that your sister in the tree? How many do you have?”

“Six,” Dante replies, still smiling, clearly enjoying his ability to shock people with this tidbit of familial trivia. “I’m the accidental seventh child of the family, not that anyone ever complains. My parents could afford a small army of children.”

Hux gives a low whistle. Six siblings… ‘ _Wow’_ doesn’t cut it. As a boy, Hux often wished he had a sibling, someone he could bond with over Brendol’s dismal parenting skills; as an adult, Hux was instead eternally grateful to have been the only child subjected to Brendol’s unique brand of cruelty. It’s truly a wonder he ever made it to his eighteenth birthday.

“I noticed a trend while we were under,” Dante continues, changing the topic. “You gravitated toward the First Order and Kylo Ren.”

“I suppose I did.”

“That’s not necessarily a bad thing—if I can tell what you want to see and pull out a suitable memory quickly enough, that means you’re already in the process of trying to assert yourself on my psyche. However, I would advise you to stay clear of my more emotionally charged memories, at least until you’re ready to take the wheel. As with Janym, you might end up falling into a highlight reel of your own worst memories.”

“But I need to perform a little reconnaissance however I can,” Hux replies. “You’ve seen and heard so much since they brought you here. I could really use some of that information.”

Dante quirks an eyebrow at him, as though he serious doubts about that. “How could my philosophizing with Lord Seir and the Supreme Leader possibly help you?”

“People change. A fresh character analysis on someone I already know could still prove valuable.” Flashes of copper and green—that’s what Dante said, hadn’t he? That was important, more so than his companion appreciated. “I need to gather every bit of information I possibly can if I’m to play the game properly.”

“And how does one play this so-called ‘game’ properly?”

“Cutthroat.” He and Kaydel had already made a promise to one another to do whatever they could, no holds barred, to escape captivity or weather through it the best they could. Hux had every intention of keeping it. “There is nothing too far above or beneath me that I will not do to get my son out of here.”

Dante stares at him for a long moment, then sighs and says, “I think playing their game is the right way to lose, but I guess you’ve known them longer than I have. Just…try to warn me when you’re going to do something crazy. I want to be able to help you before any situation gets dire.”

“I’ll try,” Hux says, although it feels like a hollow promise. He doesn’t like ‘crazy’ ideas any more than Dante does, but who knows when he will need to make a snap decision?

Apparently satisfied with his answer, Dante extends his hands toward Hux again. “Ready to give it another go?”

Admittedly, Hux is curious to know more about the life Dante lived when he was still a free man. Six siblings, yet Dante was the only child that was unplanned? What kind of people had the time and resources to raise so many children and manage to come out with someone with such a cheery disposition?

Intrigued, Hux takes the proffered hands and tries not to think of the First Order or Ren or any of the things he was planning to do to even the playing field.

He’ll ponder his next move of their great game in private.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Things are going to really ramp up in the next few chapters, so hold onto your hats, mates.
> 
> PS: No, nothing bad is going to happen to Kirian. The possibility of something bad happening to him, though, is certainly a good motivator for our wayward hero.


End file.
